Author’s Note: This is originally planned as ONE-SHOT but some comments were asking for it. Long overdue because life happens but here it is finally! Please don’t reupload or make YT content without my permission. This is purely imagination.
Part one (my YT channel), part two
☆ Kim Seokijn
• Opposite
He has been always the reason for your blushes and secret smiles. He has been always the reason you sleep peacefully at night and wake up panting from wild dreams. The thing is, you never exchanged words despite the side glances and awkward smiles whenever you see him in the campus.
☆ Min Yoongi
• Untitled
☆Jung Hoseok
• Wallflower
You’re the type of person who prefers silence, feels awkward in a tiny hint of spotlight, enjoys time for yourself, being in your own bubble and keeping small circle of trusted friends,
He is loud, enjoys the attention, friends with almost everyone!
Pairing: Hoseok x Reader
au/genre/warning: Fluff; dancer Hoseok; Sunshine
Word Count: 3.7k
☆ Park Jimin
• Summer Scent (Uploaded on my YT account)
One Summer that could change your life forever
au/genre/warning: college, fluff, smut, too much sex, switch!jimin; mention of pregnancy, marriage; heartbreak, angst; use earphones!!!!!; nsfw; EXTREME MATURE CONTENT!!!! 💦💦💦
Part one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, finale
Summary: Running a small bar in a quiet town near a military base was supposed to be your whole life; long nights, familiar faces, and the weight of debts that weren’t always yours. Love was the last thing on your mind, especially with someone like Taehyung: a charming, intense soldier serving his mandatory service before going back to his idol life. What started as stolen conversations and late-night flirtation quickly turned into something deeper, something that made you believe that maybe you could have more. But in a place where secrets don’t stay hidden and powerful people don’t like to lose, getting close to him might be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done. Can you really let yourself fall when everything around you is trying to pull you under? Or will loving Taehyung cost you more than you’re willing to pay?
Genre: Idol au, strangers to lovers, military era au.
Warnings: I always wanted to write Taehyung in the Special Duty Team, and what was supposed to be just a quick one shot became something with plot. I have been sitting with this story in my head since he enlisted, and I’m now finally able to get it out, since this boy decided to go wild for the Arirang tour. This story will talk about military life, mentions of the loss of a loved one (non graphic), debt, and mentions of mature themes, so be warned. I honestly love this story so much, because it became much deeper than I was expecting it. There’s also a lot of fluff, sweetness and smut along with the angst!
WC: 28k
The night started out pretty boring, which didn’t always mean a bad thing in this part of town. You much preferred the quiet and the regular patrons of the bar, instead of the trouble makers who sometimes walked in like they already owned this place. Even if it meant the tips were scarce and that you and the couple of girls who worked with you didn’t have a lot to do.
Two blocks away from the back gate of the Special Duty military base, Guardian’s Rest was the only real place to eat a properly cooked meal or drink for miles. It sat directly across from a brightly lit gas station with a CU convenience store attached, its faded green sign humming faintly in the night air.
Inside, your bar felt worn but cared for in all of the ways that mattered. The wooden floor was swept clean despite the scratches from scraping chairs, the counters polished until they gleamed under warm yellow pendant lights. Cracked leather booths lined one wall, patched here and there with tape, while metal stools stood in a neat row along the bar counter.
The air carried the familiar mix of grilled meat, soju, and a hint of lemon cleaner you used every night. A few framed photos hung behind the bar, old unit shots, men in uniform, quiet reminders of better days.
“Shadow boys incoming.” Mina announced from where she was standing near the front windows, the easy excitement carrying in with her tone.
Well, maybe it was still too early to call this night boring.
Not five minutes later the door swung open with the familiar jingle of the old bell you kept meaning to remove, letting in a rush of warm night air. Four members of the Special Duty Team stepped inside; Ji-hoon, the tall one with the easy laugh who had a major crush on Mina, Minseok, the quiet stocky guy who always ordered extra kimchi, and Hyun and Woo, the two sergeants who never never behaved like their titles demanded.
At least not when they visited the bar.
Walking in behind their loose formation was someone you didn’t recognize: tall, wide shoulders, sharp-jawed, black beret still slightly crooked like he’d just pulled it on. The new man moved with the same confident ease as the others, shoulder-checking one of them with a grin when the Ji-hoon ribbed him about something.
New military faces weren’t really that rare here, every year you got a new surge of fresh young men who thought the SDT would turn out to be just like their video games, most of whom didn’t last the first six months before asking to be transferred to another base.
But the way this new guy blended in so well with the four veterans, you could tell he had at least been around for a while, working hard enough to join this particular team and earning his stripes.
As the five of them walked in, taking their usual round table in the further left, scraping an extra chair so the new guy could sit with them, Mina walked closer to the bar, keeping her voice louder than you’d hope:
“We got new meat.” she chuckled, wiggling her eyebrows and throwing a charming look over her shoulder as one of the boys waved either of you over.
“You’re taking that or should I?” you asked, and before your friend could say anything else, you clarified: “The table.”
“You go ahead, I’m still ignoring Ji-hoon.” Mina shrugged, giving you the go ahead to serve them. “But share the tips if they are good.”
“You really break my bank, you know that, right?” you scoffed, but always agreed.
You and Mina traded places, with her going behind the bar, and you pulling your work phone from your apron front pocket. You might not have a lot of high tech at the bar, but at least you had an app where you could type the orders and they would go straight to Mrs. Kim in the kitchen.
“Good evening, boys.” you smiled sweetly at them as you walked to the table, watching them light up.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of being served by the owner herself?” Minseok offered you a little crooked grin.
“Not the owner yet,” you corrected him with a friendly hand on his shoulder. Then you nodded your head at Ji-hoon. “You can ask that one what he did now, because Mina won’t come near him.”
“That’s not what she was saying last night.” Ji-hoon was already standing up to chase after your friend, making his own groan and try to stop him without any success.
Out of all of the Special Team men that frequented your bar, these boys were your favorites. Yeah, Ji-hoon had a way of going through your waitresses, and Minjae liked to hit on you from time to time, but overall, they had never been anything but respectful to you and all the workers. They even helped paint the outside of Guardian’s Rest last year, without asking for any payment in return.
You could only hope the new guy would turn out to be just as cool.
“I see you adopted a rookie.” you looked at the new man, still leaning against Minjae’s shoulder, studying the new guy with a tilted head.
“That’s Taetae.” Hyun said, which earned him a scoff from the new guy. “He just joined the crew seven months ago.”
“Taehyung is fine, thank you.” the man introduced himself, taking his black beret off and placing it on his lap out of respect.
Then it clicked, now that you were closer, where you knew that face from.
Everyone and their mother would know BTS and you weren’t immune to kpop idols or pop culture, but this bar had seen many celebrities over the years; thanks to the mandatory military service that made sure even the most famous of idols were still forced to serve.
The most impressive part wasn’t that BTS’ V was in your bar right now, but that he obviously chose the hardest branch of the military to join.
“Welcome to Guardian’s Rest, Taetae.” you smiled, and watched his lips falter in a smile he was trying to hide. “Drinks on the house tonight.”
“Oh, fuck yeah–” Woo was about to celebrate, but you clicked your tongue.
“Not for you four, just for him.” you corrected, having a little too much fun with the way they all groaned. “It’s first time hospitality, don’t think your pretty face has anything to do with it.”
“I won’t.” Taehyung laughed under his breath, legs stretching under the table. His chest lifted just slightly, shoulders settling as his gaze drifted back to you. His eyes were dark and warm, with that shadow of mischief that explained how he ended up with this group. You appreciated that even after a full day of training he still smelled clean, like crisp soap and something faintly woodsy. “Do I get your name?”
“Once you earn it.” you told him with a small shrug, watching him lick the corner of his lips and nod slowly like he’d accept that for now. “So what’s it gonna be tonight, boys? Are we doing usuals or mixing things up?”
“Half & half chicken, two orders of kimchi jeon, and some seasoned rice.” Minseok told you their usual order you already knew by heart, making it easier for you to type it on the phone app. “We’ll have five beers with that.”
“Actually,” Taehyung lifted a hand just enough to catch attention, and you really hoped he wouldn’t ask for the expensive, top of the shelves liquor just because you said he could drink for free tonight. “Do you have any flavored soju?”
“I think we have peach and strawberry.” you told him, no judgment from you when the others clearly didn’t agree with the drink choice.
“I’ll have the strawberry, please.”
You finished typing the order just as Ji-hoon returned to the table, the softest smidge of lipstick on the corner of his lips like he was pretending he tried to wipe it off, but still wanted something to show off to his friends. Military men or not, they were still just boys at the end of the day.
You made your way back behind the counter, pulled four cold beer bottles from the fridge and grabbed a bottle of strawberry soju along with a small shot glass. The drinks clinked together as you loaded them onto a tray before balancing them with practiced ease back to the table.
The guys were already loud and lively then, voices overlapping as they roasted Ji-hoon about the lipstick mark. Taehyung leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest of another one, laughing along with the rest while shooting you another quick glance as you set the bottles down.
You didn’t linger any more than you had to, just placed everything in the middle of the table with a small nod and turned back toward the counter.
That was when tires screeched sharply outside, cutting through the quiet night. Your stomach dropped instantly, as you unfortunately knew that sound a little too well. You heard it at least once a month for the past three years, and when that used to be your uncle’s problem, now that the man was gone, it had become yours.
Please, not tonight, you thought, holding onto hope and you sent Mina a quick look. She caught it immediately and slipped behind the counter, disappearing into the kitchen without a word.
The front door opened a second later and Mr. Han stepped inside.
He was dressed in a crisp button-down under a black suit, no tie around his thick neck, with expensive-looking slacks, but his graying hair was slicked back too harshly and his yellow teeth showed when his lips pulled into a thin smile.
Mr. Han walked straight to the counter, his expensive shoes clicking against the wooden floor. He leaned one forearm on the polished surface like he belonged there.
“Evening, Yn.” he said, voice low but carrying. “Month’s payment. I’m here to collect.”
“I paid everything I could last week.” you hated how your voice trembled around the words. “It’s only been seven days since then, it’s not–”
“You didn’t pay the full amount, did you?” Mr. Han pointed out, and you hated every moment he spent in your safe space. “Interest keeps running. You know how this works.”
A few heads turned your way as Mr. Han wasn’t an anonymous figure in this town by any means. And he’d been to the bar quite a few times, with requests exactly like this one, for patrons not to guess what it was about. From the corner of your eye you saw the boys’ table go rigid, Ji-hoon’s laugh cut off mid-sentence, Minseok’s shoulders squared, like both were ready to intervene if this conversation lasted much longer.
“Can you come back in a couple of hours?” you lowered your voice, trying to keep this contained. “I’ll sort it out, just– not right now.”
Mr. Han glanced around the room, clearly enjoying the attention he was getting, and more than happy to make you squirm.
“I’ll just stay and have a drink, then.” he decided, perching himself on a bench by the counter between you. “You know, catch up with the regulars.”
Your stomach twisted at that possibility, because that was much worse. Your throat tightened with a lump as you took two steps towards the register, punching the code and watching the old machine open. There wasn’t enough in there to pay all the workers for tonight’s shift as it was, you didn’t know how you’d tell Mina and Mrs. Kim that you had to give whatever little you had to pay someone else’s debt.
But you took the money anyway, along with the small stack of tips you had in your pocket from waiting tables tonight, and slid the money towards the collector.
Mr. Han took it with that yellow smile of his and counted the bills slowly, thumbing through each note as if he wanted you to see his disappointment.
“You know I’m not trying to hurt you here, right?” he looked up after pushing your money into the breast pocket of his suit. eyes flat. “I’m just trying to get what I’m owed.”
You said nothing because there was nothing worth saying and you refused to let him see the tears you were fighting back.
“I’ll see you in two weeks.” he threatened more than warned.
Mr. Han gave the room one last sweeping look, then turned and walked out. The door shut behind him with a quiet click that stayed in the air long after the footsteps faded.
You stood there behind the counter, hands still pressed flat against the wood. The bar had gone quiet in a way that made every small sound feel too loud: the low hum of the fridge, the soft clink of ice in someone’s glass, the creak of a chair as someone shifted. You wanted the relief to come, the chance to pull in one full breath, but your chest stayed tight, the pressure sitting right behind your ribs like something heavy had settled there and refused to move.
Eyes were on you, you could feel them without looking up. Some carried that familiar pity, the kind that made your skin crawl because it changed nothing. Others held judgment, the quiet kind that assumed you must have made the kind of choices that led to men like Mr. Han.
None of them knew the whole truth, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.
You wanted to run, to turn around, push through the back door, and keep walking until the night swallowed this whole mess. Instead you wiped your hands on the front of your apron, and forced your legs to move with as much grace as you could manage. You kept your head down as you stepped out from behind the counter, the floorboards uneven under your shoes, but they still felt like home.
On your way to the bathroom, you passed the circular table without looking at any of the boys you’ve grown so fond of. You knew they would be watching, you felt the weight of their attention on your back, on the side of your face, but you did not turn. Not even a glance. Your hands stayed loose at your sides even though your fingers wanted to curl into fists.
You pushed the door to the women’s bathroom open, stepped inside, and closed it behind you with a soft click. The lock turned under your fingers and for a second you just stood there, palms pressed against the cheap wood, forehead resting on it.
Then your legs gave out.
You slid down the door until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up. Your hands came up to cover your mouth, pressing hard so nothing loud could escape. The pressure in your chest pushed harder, rocking through you in tight waves. You breathed through your fingers, short and shaky, eyes burning but staying dry. You could not fall apart here. Not completely. There was still a shift to finish, bills to pay, and a room full of people waiting on the other side of that door.
But for this small moment you let yourself feel it. The fear. The exhaustion. The sick weight of knowing two weeks would come faster than you could fix anything.
-
-
“Thank you, both of you. For staying late again tonight.” you walked the two women to the front door of the bar, all three of you knowing they had stayed past hours just to make sure you wouldn’t need to be alone for any longer than necessary. “I’m sorry about the payments. I won’t let it happen again.”
Mina waved a hand, already pulling her coat on.
“Stop that. We’re good, Yn. Really.” she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around you in one of her quick, tight hugs. Her jacket smelled like cigarette smoke and the vanilla lotion she always kept in her locker. “Besides, Ji-hoon left me some decent tips tonight. I’ll be fine.”
“My husband is doing well at the gas station.” Mrs. Kim gave a small nod while buttoning her cardigan, her movements slow but always steady. “They’re talking about a promotion next month. We’ll manage until things settle.”
You knew neither story was completely true, you could hear the careful softness in their voices, the way they tried to make the words sound light, like your bad luck wasn’t harming them at the end of each work week. Still, the thought settled warm in your chest.
“Thank you.” you gave them both a small smile and nodded.
Once they left, you locked the front door with the carefulness you didn’t need once upon a time. The keys felt cold and heavy in your hand as you turned the deadbolt, then slid the extra chain into place. You turned around slowly, eyes moving across the room; chairs were tucked neatly under tables, the floor already swept, glasses lined up behind the bar. Everything sat ready for tomorrow’s noon opening. The sight should have felt comforting, instead it only reminded you how much still needed to stay standing.
You turned off the lights one by one and the main room went dark in stages until only the faint glow from the exit sign and the streetlight outside the front windows remained. In the sudden quiet you walked back to the kitchen, grabbed your bag from the hook by the staff door, and slipped the strap over your shoulder.
Outside, the night air hit cooler than you expected, which made you regret deciding against your jacket when you left home this morning.
You locked the back door carefully, checking the handle twice, then bent down for the two black trash bags you had left by the step. They rustled as you lifted them, the plastic slick against your palms. The bin sat a short way down the alley. You carried the bags over, heaved them inside, and wiped your hands on your jeans.
You were just turning toward the street when movement caught the corner of your eye.
Kai stood leaning against the side wall of the bar, half-hidden in the shadow where the security light had burned out weeks ago. His shoulder pressed to the brick, arms loose at his sides, like he had all the time in the world. He knew your routine, had learned it long enough for you to be uncomfortable. The way you locked up alone, the exact path you took to the trash bins, the minute or two it took before you headed for the bus stop.
Your stomach rolled hard, a sour push that made you swallow fast. You held it down the same way you had held everything since his father first walked in tonight. The taste stayed at the back of your throat anyway.
You were so tired... Your shoulders ached from carrying trays and tension for hours, and now this. You knew what Kai wanted, and you knew what he was capable of when he did not get it. The knowledge sat cold under your skin.
Despite the exhaustion, you were raised to survive and to keep going. Your eyes flicked across the street, to the gas station lights that were still on, bright white against the dark. Mrs. Kim’s small car waited in the usual spot near the pumps, her husband visible through the window as he finished closing.
If you had to, you could scream. You could run. Someone would hear. Someone would look.
“I don't have any more money, Kai.” you told him with a sigh as you kept walking.
“You know that's not what I want.” he said, tone too gentle to match his morals. “I can get you out of this debt, baby, you know you just need to say the word.”
“As much as I appreciate the way out, our time isn't up yet.” you said, and felt the small shiver running down your spine when he started to follow after you.
“You really think your uncle will honor that?” Kai asked, and you hated how you both knew the answer to that. “He hasn't been in town for the past five months.”
“Just because you haven't seen him at the bar, doesn't mean he skipped town.” you lied through your teeth.
Well, you had no idea, actually. One day, your uncle simply stopped showing up to his own bar and stopped answering your calls. Your best guess was that he ran away, leaving you behind to deal with his mistakes.
“We own this town, baby.” Kai gloated, and the only reason you stopped walking was because you refused to give him your back. “Han has eyes everywhere, so unless uncle dearest hasn't left his apartment in five months…”
You wouldn’t put it past your uncle, actually. You loved the man, he’d raised you from when you were fifteen and was the only family you had in this town. But he had his demons and sometimes they made him make bad decisions. Like selling your soul to the local devil and running away before he had to see it taken.
“Why don't you let me make it easier on all of us?” Kai reached you in two steps, and you hated how you stumbled backwards. “Let me collect now, the debts will be cleared by sunrise.”
“And I'll become a slave.” you swallowed, but held your shoulders up.
“That hurts.” Kai placed his hands over his heart, like you were offending one here. “I wouldn’t treat you badly, you know me.”
“Hardly.” you rolled your eyes, already disgusted.
“I can be gentle…” another step. A rough laugh. “The first time.”
“Please leave, I have work tomorrow.” you sighed, holding the straps of your bag so you wouldn’t hurt your palms with your nails.
“Let me take you to dinner,” Kai said, looking at you in a way that made your skin pull tight. “Can’t have you eating leftovers or cup ramen everyday. You need your strength for when I get my hands on you.”
Another voice cut through the night, deep and low: “I’d keep those hands to myself, if I were you.”
You did not recognize the voice right away, so the new sound sent a fresh spike of anxiety through your chest, sharp enough that your fingers tightened harder around the straps of your bag. Then you saw the uniform jacket, the rows of decorations on the chest, and your stomach flipped again.
Taehyung was still here. Or he had come back. You could not think clearly enough to decide which one was more likely.
“‘the fuck are you?” Kai asked, stepping forward. He was not bothered by the uniform. The two men stood almost the same height, same width in the shoulders, facing each other like neither planned to back down first.
“Seargent Kim, special division.” Taehyung answered, voice calm. His posture said something else entirely. “And you are?”
“Her boyfriend.” Kai said without hesitation, claiming something that had never been his.
You scoffed before you could stop yourself, shaking your head. The sound came out tired and disbelieving. Taehyung’s mouth curved slightly.
“She doesn’t seem to agree with that.” he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, looking every bit the warrior the title named him to be.
“She likes playing hard to get, you know how they are.” Kai tried, shifting into that fake friendly tone men sometimes used with each other.
Taehyung did not smile back. He took two steps and placed himself between you and Kai, his back solid and close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off his jacket.
Usually you would have stepped around him and handled this yourself, you had done it plenty of times before. But tonight your legs felt too heavy and your chest too tight. The weight of Mr. Han’s visit, disappointing Mina and Mrs. Kim, everything pressed down at once from all sides.
“I know you should leave.” Taehyung said simply.
Kai stared at him for a long second, his jaw worked like he wanted to argue, maybe even throw a punch, but something made him think better of it.
“I’ll see you again soon, baby.” he looked past Taehyung’s shoulder at you instead. “You better have the money. Han isn’t as nice as I am.”
Kai turned and walked toward his car parked along the sidewalk, got in, and the engine started a moment later, loud in the quiet street, and the headlights swept across the front of the bar as he drove away. The small parking lot stayed dark except for the single motorbike near the side entrance, probably Taehyung’s.
The moment the taillights disappeared around the corner, the air left your lungs in one long breath. Your shoulders dropped and the relief came so fast it made your hands shake a little where they still gripped your bag. Right now you only felt grateful that, for once, you had not been left alone with Kai.
“Did I make it worse?” Taehyung asked, turning around to face you. The sharp edge he had worn with Kai softened the moment it was just the two of you.
He looked younger suddenly, more boy than warrior under the flickering side light of the bar. You shook your head, still feeling a little raw around the edges.
“I don’t think that’s possible.” your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Thank you, seriously. You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” he smiled, small and easy, and for a second you got a little lost in it. The way the corners of his eyes creased, the warmth that reached somewhere you had not expected tonight.
“Usually I’m better at handling this, but tonight I just–” you stopped yourself, suddenly feeling a little silly. “Sorry. You don’t care about my rambling.”
“Actually I could use a rambling that doesn’t involve drills and weapons talk.” Taehyung said with a low chuckle. “Or Ji-hoon hyung’s unhealthy obsession with Mina.”
A real laugh slipped out of you, surprising you with how warm it felt in your chest. It was the first one that had felt genuine all night.
You stood there together for a moment as the summer breeze moved through the alley, lifting strands of your hair and pushing them away from your neck. You barely noticed how Taehyung’s gaze followed the motion, settling on the part where your neck and shoulder met, then a small peek of collarbone before avoiding it altogether.
You felt the weight of his stare, warm and steady. You were used to men looking at you, you had learned how to use it for better tips, how to smile just enough without giving anything real. You weren’t necessarily coy by any means, but Taehyung was just so handsome even under this unfairly soft light that you didn’t know how to recover.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked, voice casual like the offer cost him nothing.
You nodded toward the bus stop a few meters down the street: “You can walk me to the bus stop.”
Taehyung glanced at the watch on his wrist, checking the time. He thought about it for only a second, then looked back at you.
“Can I drive you home instead, then?”
You didn’t know what it was about a man in that particular uniform, it's not like military men were necessarily always nice or safe to be around. Working this close to the base, you met quite a few scumbags who thought they could get away with being handsy just because of the badges strapped to their chest.
But the special forces were usually a different story.
“I don't want to keep you.” you said, thinking back of the base he needed to go back to, and just how far away your apartment complex was. “Don't you have a curfew?”
“My day off just started fifteen minutes ago.” he told you easily, and you didn’t want to think about excuses anymore.
That’s what made you nod, watching his eyes light up in surprise and satisfaction. Taehyung led you to his motorcycle, keeping his respectful distance and hands at his back.
“I just have one helmet, so you can take it.” the man told you like he suddenly didn’t care about his own safety, taking the one black helmet that was hanging from the handlebar.
“Isn't this illegal?” you halted. “You could get in trouble.”
“I would be in more trouble if something happened to you, trust me.” he clicked the straps of the helmet open, handing it to you. “That lady cook is scary.”
“You wouldn't be wrong.” you laughed, reluctantly taking it.
Taehyung stepped closer and helped you settle the helmet properly on your head. His fingers worked carefully under your chin, tightening the strap until it felt secure. The back of his knuckles brushed your jaw once, warm and steady. When he was satisfied, he gave the top of the helmet a light pat.
“Take this. It gets cold.” he shrugged off his black uniform jacket and held it out to you.
You took it without arguing, you had worn jackets like this before, but the weight of it felt familiar in a way that pulled at something old in your heart. You pushed your arms through the sleeves. The fabric carried his warmth and a clean, subtle scent that settled around your shoulders.
Taehyung pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to you.
“Can you put in your address?”
For one long second you thought he was going to ask for your number instead. The silly assumption made your face warm. You typed the address quickly and gave the phone back.
He strapped it to the visor, then swung one leg over the motorcycle. The black Harley looked smaller under him. His shoulders filled the space, thighs steady on either side of the tank. He twisted the handle, and the engine roared to life, the deep sound making you jump and you laughed at yourself.
You climbed on behind him after that.
There was not much room at all, no choice but to have your thighs pressed against the outside of his, the heat of his body immediate through the thin denim. You rested your hands lightly on his back at first.
“You need to hold on better than that, hustler.” Taehyung chuckled, the sound low enough you felt it under your palms.
The word landed soft in your stomach, after everything Kai had thrown at you tonight, so ‘hustler’ felt different.
You slid your arms around his middle and locked them properly, his body surprisingly solid in all of the right places. When Taehyung twisted the throttle again, the engine rumbled louder. You held on tighter as the motorcycle rolled forward, the night air already starting to move against the jacket sleeves.
The motorcycle moved smoothly through the quiet streets, the engine a low steady rumble under you. Taehyung followed the GPS without hesitation, turning when the screen told him to, his body leaning slightly with each curve. The summer night air filled your lungs and cooled your cheeks as you kept your arms wrapped around his middle, feeling the shift of muscle as he handled the bike.
Even though he was still mostly a stranger, you felt safe in a way you had not expected. Part of your brain kept repeating the same thing: that’s because you knew him. Not personally, but from the news, from the posters, from the way people talked about the idols. Kim Taehyung, or simply V. The name carried weight in this country. Your mind had decided that someone millions of people cared about could not hurt you.
Still, you used to be sharper with strangers, famous or not.
The ride stayed easy, since it was late enough that most lights stayed green and the streets were nearly empty, which you were thankful for since only one of you had a safety helmet.
It was only at that realization that you thought about how crazy it was that he had given you the helmet. That he had decided your safety mattered more than his in that moment. While this man was the one who meant something to millions, and you could count on one hand the people who would even notice if you disappeared tomorrow.
A little while later the motorcycle finally slowed and Taehyung turned into the entrance of your apartment complex and parked near the front steps. If he noticed how lower middle class it was, when he was probably used to high luxury, he didn’t comment on it.
You climbed off the bike, legs a little stiff, and unbuckled the helmet.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” you said, handing it back. “And again, for what you did back there.”
“Don’t sweat it.” he took the helmet with a genuine smile that reached his eyes.
You slipped off the jacket next, hoping it did not smell too strongly of the alcohol you’ve been handling all night and the bulgogi Mrs. Kim had fried at the last hour. You folded it carefully and gave it to him.
“I saw you leave with the veterans.” and… Just because you could not leave it unsaid, you asked: “Why did you come back?”
Taehyung looked at you for a moment, the streetlight catching the side of his face.
“You never told me your name.”
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Taehyung held his tray with both hands, careful enough not to drop any of the food balanced carefully on it, as he ventured around the cafeteria of the base. The familiar midday rush was already filling the long room, with metal trays clattering against tables, voices overlapping in easy bursts of laughter and half-shouted stories; the warm smell of rice, grilled meat, and kimchi hung thick in the air, always smelling better than it tasted.
Lunch was the one stretch of the day that felt almost ordinary, like the base forgot for forty minutes that they were all soldiers ready to go to war if the North decided it was time. Taehyung liked it for that reason, no drills, no orders, just the low hum of people being people.
Taehyung scanned the rows of tables out of habit, eyes moving across the sea of twin uniforms even though he knew exactly where his friends would be. Same corner table by the far window, same loose arrangement of chairs.
Most of the faces around him still looked too young, smooth cheeks and bright eyes that had not yet carried the full weight of the years he had lived before enlisting. Tae felt the difference in his shoulders sometimes, a quiet heaviness that had nothing to do with the pack he carried on marches. A few heads turned as he passed, no matter how many times he’d been seen in this camp before.
Some soldiers tried to hide it, others did not bother to pretend. The stares were the same ones he had gotten since the first week: half awe, half disbelief that the man from the Grammy stages was now just another private carrying a tray of bulgogi and rice. He had stopped minding it months ago. It was easier to let them look than to pretend he was invisible.
Since Tae was the rookie, if compared to his closest friends at the base, the group of veterans that took him under their wing two weeks into serving, it meant he always fell to the end of the meal lines, and by the time he made it to the table, his friends were already there. At least Minseok had the decency to pretend to wait for Taehyung to join them before he started scarfing down his lunch.
“What was up with you today, bro?” Hyun didn’t even wait for Tae’s tray to touch the table top before accusing: “Your time was awful during drills.”
“It was still better than yours.” Taehyung shot back, sitting down with more force than needed, making the folding chair complain.
“I'm older than you.” the hyung shot back, about to scold him for disrespecting the elders.
“By less than a year.” Taehyung said, picking his chopsticks and starting to eat.
Taehyung was used to eating fast, in the Bangtan early days, if he didn’t, he’d go without food because everyone else would finish whatever little food they had to share. Here it was a different kind of feeling. His tray was filled with more food than he’d consumed during a lunch before; when he’d always been worried about staying light and keeping weight off, here he enjoyed bulking up. All of the protein in his tray made sure he was well fed so he could handle the harsh drills.
Like the one today, which he was eight seconds slower than he’d been last week, as his friend so kindly pointed out.
But here, he ate fast for another reason entirely. As soon as he finished his meal, he could do whatever he wanted with whatever time was left. Taehyung could nap, read a book, walk around the camp, sit under a tree. Having the freedom of choice to do what he wanted with his time, when the rest of it was minutely timed by his superiors and packed into schedules that made his muscles hurt.
It was something so trivial and normal, and now that he didn’t have that type of free will anymore, he desperately held on to the fifteen or twenty minutes he managed to save every other day.
“Don't give him too much shit, he's in love.” Ji-hoon said from the other side of Taehyung, between sips of his water bottle.
“What?” Minseok’s eyes were wide saucers.
Taehyung scoffed with his mouth full of rice. “'fuck you on about?”
“You talk in your sleep you know?” Ji-hoon continued, which made Taehyung freeze for half a second.
“What did he say??” Woo leaned forward on the table, like a girl waiting the gossip. “Was he having a wet dream??”
“Ew?!” Minseok made a face and eyes his plate with disgust, like the mental picture was too much, but it only lasted for a second before he continued eating.
“It happens–” Woo looked really offended by the older man’s reaction.
Taehyung ignored them both to ask: “What did I say?”
Taehyung knew he talked in his sleep, especially when he was stressed. Back at home, it happened during comeback preparations and before whatever new album they were working on had to be approved by the company. During the week before their debut showcase, in fact, Taehyung talked so much that Hoseok-hyung almost smothered him with a pillow to get him to shut up.
But here in the military, being stressed was his normal, everyday state, so he hadn’t really been doing it. Not that he was aware of, at least, and Ji-hoon and the other guy he shared a tent with hadn’t complained until today.
“Nothing cohesive, but you did mention the word 'bar' a couple of times.” Ji-hoon said, and Tae almost regretted asking.
“You got a drinking problem we should be worried about?” Woo asked, suspicious.
“Not that I know of.” Taehyung shook his head, shoving pieces of unseasoned grilled meat into his mouth.
And then, ignoring Taehyung’s pleading eyes of ‘shut up now’, Ji-hoon said: “You also mentioned Yn a couple times.”
That was enough for the other three to erupt in cackles and ‘oooohs’ that were too loud for Taehyung’s liking.
“You met the girl once and you're already dreaming about her?” Minseok asked, as if he hadn’t been the one melting under your hand on his shoulder three days ago. “I know we can get needy while we're locked up in here, but damn.”
Because he wasn’t really the type of guy to remember his dreams, unless they involved his grandmother. But you just had a way of getting stuck in Taehyung’s head that he couldn’t tell if his thoughts happened when he was asleep or awake.
Apparently both.
He couldn’t help it when you left such an impression. You were beautiful, yes, obviously so. But it was more than that… You also had a thunderstorm behind your eyes, holding so much on your shoulders, in ways Taehyung couldn’t even comprehend without gathering more information, that he was afraid you might break.
Yet you kept getting up again, every time he saw you.
A hustler if he’d ever seen one.
“What's the deal with that Han guy?”
Taehyung’s question was enough to shut his friends up, which never ever happened. If Tae didn’t think you were in trouble before, he did now. The four hyungs looked at each other, as if mentally discussing amongst themselves who would be the one to answer.
With each second that ticked by without an answer, Taehyung became more concerned.
“He's a loan shark who runs half this town.” Woo started, and Taehyung lost his appetite. “At least the other side of the tracks.”
“Mina told me Yn's uncle owes him a lot of money. Like... A lot of money. More than what the bar is worth.” Ji-hoon continued then, and the other guys paid attention too. “The uncle dipped town so he wouldn’t start losing fingers every time he failed a payment.”
“Jesus.” Taehyung swallowed hard, feeling the meat scratch his throat uncomfortably. “And he left her alone to deal with it?”
“It's worse than that.” Minseok was staring at the table when he said: “She's the collateral.”
The words dropped straight into Taehyung’s stomach. His chopsticks stopped halfway to his mouth, the piece of meat suddenly too heavy on his tongue. His throat worked once, twice, trying to swallow what now felt lodged there. The whole cafeteria noise dulled for a second, like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the tight press of his own pulse in his ears.
Tae kept seeing it in his head... The bar with half the tables empty even on a weekend night. The two lights outside that still needed replacing, their bulbs dark and useless. Your apartment complex under the streetlight, honest and simple, nothing like the places he was used to taking for granted.
He remembered Mr. Han leaning on that counter like he already owned it, forcing you to empty the register and dig into the earned tips. You had done it without fighting back, handing over money you clearly did not have just to buy yourself two more weeks.
And none of it was even your debt. You were paying for mistakes your uncle had made, and if the money ever ran out completely, you would be the final price.
Taehyung pushed his tray forward an inch when the food no longer looked like lunch.
“She's a person, not an item to be given.” Taehyung grumbled, jaw ticking.
“These guys don't play by the rules, if you haven't noticed.” Minseok kept his tone just as quiet.
“What else did Mina say?” Taehyung looked straight at Ji-hoon, who looked conflicted between keeping your secrets and being honest.
“She said that Yn hasn't left town because too many people depend on their jobs at the bar to survive.” Jihoon finally answered. “This shithole isn't exactly bursting with opportunities for the locals.”
“It's a shame her uncle is such an asshole, she's a really nice girl.” Minseok chewed on his cheek, looking younger than he was and his military ranking allowed. “Everyone here likes her.”
“We even thought about creating a fund to help pay the debt, but Han wouldn't take it.” Ji-hoon continued, clearly not happy about any of that. “His son is obsessed with her.”
“Kai?” Taehyung’s mouth moved before he could think better of it.
“How do you know that name?” Woo asked, suddenly concerned.
Taehyung didn’t need to answer for his friends to take a wild guess that he might have run into the guy, even if they didn’t know what he had to watch you deal with.
“Bro. Stay out of it.” Ji-hoon warned. “I'm fucking serious.”
“He's right, Tae, these people are messed up.” Minseok agreed. “You're too valuable–”
Tae shook his head. “Why does that matter?”
“Because if something happens to V of BTS while in the special units, how do you think the country will react?” Woo was back in sergeant mode, lunch was over. “Our name will be dragged through the mud, the fucking government will get involved and this could all be shut down.”
Ji-hoon nodded, even if it hurt. “Duty over matter.”
-
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You were in big trouble, which was the understatement of the year when basically all aspects of your life were falling apart around you. Mr. Han hadn't been back in two weeks, and you hadn't seen Kai for just as long, but instead of being relieved by it, you couldn’t help but think they were preparing something big.
Your rent was three months late because you just couldn't afford it when every penny had to go into paying your uncle's debt when he was nowhere to be found.
And now you had a fucking crush.
Because sure, what else could make your life just a little harder for you?
Wanting someone so ridiculously unobtainable that just last night you had a pity party for one over the last scoops of ice cream you found in the back of your freezer.
But you couldn’t help yourself! Not when Taehyung kept coming back every two days, whenever his drills and time off allowed, sometimes with the other guys, sometimes by himself just to pick up some food to go and bring back to the base.
Some days their runs passed right in front of the Guardian's Rest, and even in the middle of a hundred other men, your eyes still found him every single time.
That's how you knew you were practically screwed at this point.
Not only was that man attractive as hell, he was also the funniest in a very weird way. And he was kind, soft spoken even when his friends were being loud, an easy company to keep. Being around him made you forget your problems for a few minutes, which was more than you had in months.
You kept catching your heart trying to leap out of your chest every time the bell above the door rang, hoping it would be Tae again.
Sometimes, it was just a few of the regulars or deliveries you also could barely pay for. But other times, like today, it was him.
The bell above the door rang again just after twelve-thirty, cutting through the Monday lunch noise. The place felt busier already than it had yesterday, which was usual for mondays once upon a time, but not recently.
A young family sat in the corner booth, the dad helping the little one with chopsticks while the mom wiped recently spilled sauce from the table. Over by the side, four gas station workers were laughing loud enough to fill half the room, their uniforms still carrying the smell of diesel as they ate lunch. In the far booth, two school-age teenagers had notebooks and textbooks spread out, heads bent together as they worked through homework and stole bites of complimentary fries.
For the first time in weeks, Guardian’s Rest actually felt like a bar again instead of a place just trying to stay open for one day.
At the new bell warning, you looked up from where you were standing in the salon and there they were: just Minseok, Woo, and Taehyung today. It was rare to see any of them on a Monday, especially since all three wore civilian clothes, so you guessed they must be having some kind of day off already.
Taehyung looked particularly breathtaking even in simple jeans and a plain white tee that sat close across his shoulders and chest, the fabric stretching as if trying to fit his new build. He scanned the room until his eyes found you and the smile that spread across his face was soft and open, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
You smiled back before you could stop yourself, the warmth hit your chest uninvited, quick and bright, but right after it came the familiar twist. Nope, not today. Nuh uh, you could not do this today. Not with him looking like that.
Your heart was already beating too hard against your ribs just from the way his hair was already a little longer, you didn’t need his jeans sitting low on his hips, risking exposing a bit of stomach if he raised his arms too much .
You refused.
The last thing you needed was to stand here feeling stupid and hopeful while the rest of your life stayed messy.
You wiped your hands on the front of your apron and tried to keep your face normal, watching as the boys headed toward their usual table. Taehyung’s gaze stayed on you a second longer than the others, like he was checking if you were okay.
You might never be okay ever again, but you could run away from at least some of your problems.
“Hey, can you take the tables?” you leaned over the counter, right in front of Mina. “I'll cover the bar.”
“You hate covering the bar during lunch rush.” the girl lifted her head to look at you with suspicion written all over her face. “What's up?”
“Please.” you groaned, trying not to use the boss card unless she forced you to.
Mina snorted a little laugh with the desperation she picked up from you, which you’d admit wasn’t a good look, but at least you could say it was unusual. Then she looked around with lines between her brows as if trying to check if there was anything actually wrong, and you could see it in her knowing smile just when she realized what was causing this out-of-character reaction.
“Ohh, I see.” she grinned, giving up on wiping the laminated drink menus. “It’s the new pretty boy.”
Mina didn’t ask any questions, but you answered anyway: “No.”
“Yes it is, she was googling his songs during breakfast.” the voice came from behind you, as Sana passed by with the dirty plates she took from the family in the booth.
“Yah!” you snapped your head at the day-time waitress, wishing you had given her the day off.
“Alright fine, I’ll take the floor.” Mina sighed dramatically, adding: “Just because I know what it’s like to be tangled with a military boy.”
You wanted to point out that there was no tangling happening, and if there was, you and Taehyung would never be as messy as Mina and Ji-hoon. But! No tangles! Just an almost-bar-owner and an idol-turned-special-unit.
You traded places with Mina, already feeling safer back there, as if you were behind a thick wall and not a bar counter that had seen better days. Besides, Mina was a lot faster taking orders and delivering plates than you were, you always found a way to stay a few seconds more and chat with the tables.
You’ve practically lived in this bar since you moved in with your uncle at fifteen, so everyday after school you’d come in and help him with the workload. You knew all of the patrons by name, and they knew you, so it was easy to get carried away with ‘how have you been?’ and ‘little Seungkwan is already graduating? Wow!’.
“Hi.”
His deep baritone came accompanied by the musky, clean scent that followed him around, making you both hate and appreciate the sharp breath you sucked in involuntarily.
When you looked up, Taehyung was already seated in one of the bar stools, making you wonder how long you were zoning out for.
“Hi.” you repeated, brain completely blanking after those two letters.
Get it together.
“Busy day?” Taehyung asked you with that habitual slight tilt of his head.
“Yeah, but I like it. Means it’s louder than my thoughts.” you replied, but grimaced just as the words came out of your mouth. “Damn, that was depressing.”
“A little.” he laughed, running a hand through his hair as if forgetting it was now shorter than it used to be.
“Sorry.” your nose scrunched.
“It's fine.” Taehyung was still smiling and you hoped he’d never stop.
“How’s training going?” you asked, genuinely curious.
“Kicking my ass, that's for sure.” he chuckled, rolling his shoulders as if he could still feel the aching in his muscles. And if you had to guess, you’d say those pains never went away.
“You do know you could have chosen an easier military branch, right?” you said, leaning forward with your hands on the counter, just to have somewhere to put them. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”
“Yeah, but what's the fun in that?” he shrugged, leaning forward from his side, resting both stretched forearms in front of him and you could almost feel the ghost of his touch.
“You chose the special unit because you thought it would be fun?” you asked, equally surprised and confused.
“I chose it because if it's something I'm forced to do, then at least I would get to try something different.” Taehyung explained, like it was no big deal.
You nodded. “That's fair.”
“I didn’t know I'd have to learn how to climb down the side of a building, though.” he admitted with a grimace, pulling a face that still didn’t make him any less handsome. “Terrible for my fear of heights, I tell you.”
“Did you do it?” you wanted to know as you leaned in just a little closer, clarifying: “Climb down the side of the building?”
“I didn't have a choice, you either go down on your own or they push you down.” Taehyung told you with a whisper, as if letting you in on a military secret.
“Seriously?” you decided to amuse him, gasping.
“Oh, yeah.” he said. “They can be very convincing.”
Then you recited what had been drilled into you decades ago: “Swallow your fear and complete the mission.”
“Exactly.”
If Taehyung wondered how you knew that motto, he didn’t ask. It was easy to assume you learned from working so close to the base, when half of your regulars were military men. And he still wouldn’t be wrong.
“Yo, lovebird.” the shout made both of you look at the table where Woo and Minseok were sitting.
“What?!” Taehyung groaned out.
“We'll start without you.” Minseok pointed to the lunch that had just been served in front of them.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” he waved his friends off, turning back to look at you with a small nervousness that wasn’t there before. “That's uh, stupid nickname they give you at the squad.”
“Sure.” you giggled, because you realized he was suddenly shy.
Taehyung watched your face, and your lips, and then anywhere but your face as he reluctantly got down from the stool. You could tell he didn’t want to go back to the table, but for your sanity, and for his own schedule, he had to.
But not before testing your previous theory about heart problems.
“Hey, so... Are you busy this weekend?” Taehyung asked, hands still on the counter as his biceps flexed unfairly. “We're having a friends and family event at the base.”
“The summer festival?” you frowned slightly, pulling it from memory based on the month. “Is it this weekend already?”
“So you've heard of it.” he moved his weight from one foot to the other. “Will you come?”
“Don’t you need an invitation for that?” something deep inside you fluttered at his question.
“I'm inviting you.” Taehyung said, direct and earnest.
“What about your family?” you asked him, just because you knew the event was a limited people situation and you wouldn’t want to take Tae’s chance of spending time with his parents or siblings that he probably hadn’t seen in months.
“They can't make it.” he told you simply, reading where your mind was going next as he said: “And my members are all serving in other branches, so they can't come either.”
“It could be fun.” you agreed with a grateful smile.
“Sergeant Kim!” Minseok yelled again, which made Taehyung’s posture go instantly rigid and straight, out of muscle memory as if he was about to salute an official.
A second later, realizing it was just his friend being an ass, his shoulders dropped and he said:
“I have to– but I'll see you–”
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You sent Mina home earlier tonight, because she covered the lunch shift, and Mrs. Kim had left twenty minutes ago, her husband waiting in the car with the engine already running.
The bar was quiet for a while now, just you and the low hum of the fridge that started threatening to quit even though it was so not the time for that. You finished locking the front door as usual, sliding the chain and bolt into place, then moved through the room turning off the lights one by one as always.
In the kitchen you picked up the list Mrs. Kim had left on the counter, scanning the items –almost out of onions, cabbage, and the big bottles of soy sauce again– and made a quiet mental note to call the supplier first thing in the morning. Maybe you could negotiate a little more time on the payment.
Your thumb rubbed over the edge of the paper as you tried to calculate how much you could stretch the next deposit.
A sound outside made you jump.
It came from the back parking lot, a low grunt, something heavy hitting the ground, then shuffling footsteps and muffled voices. Your stomach dropped fast and you stood still for half a second, heart already hammering against your ribs, before you reached under the counter and grabbed the old baseball bat.
You pushed the back door open slowly, meeting only darkness at first, since the third security light had burned out again, leaving the lot mostly in shadows. Movement was the only thing that tipped you off of the two figures who were shoving a third man on the concrete.
“Hey, assholes!” you shouted, stepping out with the bat raised. “I called the police! Get out of my parking lot. Now!”
The two men turned to the sound of your yell. They looked younger up close, barely into their half twenties. Their eyes widened when they saw you coming at them with the bat and for a second they froze, then scrambled, grabbing at each other as they ran toward the street like cowards.
“Jesus Christ–” you turned back to the man still on the ground and the word died in your throat. “Tae?”
Taehyung was already pushing himself up into a sitting position, one hand pressed to his side. “I’m good… I’m fine.”
You dropped the bat with a clatter and crouched beside him in the same second. Your knees scraped against the rough concrete, but you could feel the sting of it later. Up close you could see the sweat on his tanned skin, the wet darkness running from his nose and the corner of his eyebrow. Your chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
“You’re bleeding.” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You looked at the way he kept holding his side, like that was where it hurt the most. “Did they cut you?”
“Just scrapes.” he tried to shrug it off, but the small movement made him hiss through his teeth.
Your hand moved without thinking and you held his chin gently, turning his face from side to side under the weak light, checking the split skin. Your fingers trembled slightly against his jaw, but you kept your touch soft.
“What happened?” you asked, voice low as if speaking louder could hurt him, too.
“They were waiting for you.” he told you and your stomach dropped harder, a cold weight that spread through your whole body. “I jumped them before they had the chance, though.”
“You–” the words tangled in your throat. Part of you wanted to thank him, another part wanted to scold him for being reckless. “Two against one?”
“If I’m being honest I didn’t see the second one at first.” he laughed quietly, even though it made him wince.
“Will you let me take a look at you?” the words felt heavy on your tongue because he was hurt because of you, and the sight of blood on his face made something twist tight behind your ribs.
“I have more pride than that.” Taehyung tried to push himself up with a quiet grunt and his balance wavered for a second and he caught himself, one hand braced against the concrete. “I’m fine.”
You stepped in anyway, slipping under his arm so your shoulder fit against his side. Your arm went around his back to support his waist, careful not to press where it hurt or jostle him any more than necessary.
“As far as I know, you can get a penalty for fighting civilians,” you pointed out, keeping your steps slow and steady. “So you can either let me take a look at you or I’ll write a note to your supervisor and have you on onion cutting duty for two days.”
He went quiet. You felt the small jolt of surprise run through his body before he let out a long sigh, half amused and half betrayed.
“You really are a hustler.” his weight leaned a little more into you. “Okay, fine.”
“Let me grab my bag and we can go.” you helped him over to the back wall of the bar so he could rest against it while you went inside.
“Go?” confusion slipped into his voice and he blinked at you like the word did not quite land, and worry flickered through your chest that maybe he had hit his head harder than he let on.
“To my place.” you explained, keeping your tone soft even with anxiety lodged deep in your chest. “I’m not staying here and waiting for those goonies to come back.”
“Goonies?” Taehyung laughed despite the pain, one hand pressing to his side as the sound turned into a wince.
“I like eighties movies.” you shrugged, relieved that at least one of you seemed to be taking this lightly.
-
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You didn’t think Taehyung had taken a bus in the last decade of his life. Unless you counted the airport shutters to take him from one airplane to another, or a tour bus, maybe.
But here he was, sitting next to you on your way home after you refused to get on his bike with the way he could barely stand on two feet. In the bright lights of the bus, you could already see a small bruise already starting to show under his eye, he definitely had a cut on his eyebrow, and his nose most likely wasn’t broken, but he’d taken a punch hard enough to make it bleed.
Before you left the bar, you’d taken a few ice cubes and wrapped them up in a tea towel, which now Taehyung held against his face to help with the swell. It had earned you a second look from the bus driver, who kept checking on the two of you from his rearview mirror. At least the two of you and an old lady were the only ones taking the bus, and you highly doubted she would recognize him as V of BTS.
The walk from the bus drop off to your apartment complex was short, thankfully, and Taehyung swore he was feeling better and his ribs didn’t feel broken like he feared. He was breathing better now, too, which you appreciated. Still, you stayed close to him the whole time, his arm around your shoulders as you tried to hold some of his weight for him.
You only parted from him once you reached your apartment door, which had a paper stuck to the wood, with big red letters that absolutely mortified you.
‘DEBT NOTICE’.
It’s not like you didn’t know you owed rent, you just didn’t want Taehyung to see it thrown in your face like this. And he was so polite that he didn’t ask, in fact, he pretended not to notice it altogether.
“Just another man asking me for money I don’t have.” you said, trying to joke about it while also wanting to be honest. Because if this man was bleeding for you, at least he had the right to know why.
You pulled the paper out, hating how the glue of the tape was now staining your door until you had time to scrape it off like you had done all of the previous times. Taehyung waited patiently for you to find your keys in the bottom of your bag so you could unlock it and let the two of you inside.
You removed your shoes at the smallest landing known to men, eyes quickly scanning your apartment to make sure nothing was too messy or out of place. Taehyung already saw the testimony of how you did not have any of your shit together at the moment, he didn’t need to see any dirty laundry thrown about.
“You can sit anywhere you want, I’ll be right back.” you told him, letting him do his thing and not feel too pressured to hold back any reactions from seeing your tiny apartment.
Because your home was small, the kind of compact one-bedroom unit you’d find in any quiet town outside the big cities; affordable, unassuming, but undeniably yours. The main room served as both living area and kitchen, with pale wood laminate floors that you kept spotless and a faint, comforting scent of vanilla and warm linen lingering in the air from the reed diffuser on the windowsill.
A soft beige sofa took up most of one wall, its cushions neatly arranged and draped with a simple cream throw blanket you’d picked up at the local thrift store. Across from it sat a low coffee table with a few coasters, a small stack of books, and a single potted fern that somehow still thrived under your care.
The kitchenette was tiny but organized, which you prided yourself in, white cabinets, a two-burner stove, and a small fridge adorned with a couple of handwritten notes and a magnet from Busan. Nothing flashy, just functional.
A narrow hallway led to your bedroom and the bathroom, both doors currently closed. You opened the first one, going into the bathroom and crouching down to search your small counter for the first aid kid you kept around for emergencies.
You really hoped Taehyung didn’t need any serious care, because all you had at hand was the very basics for treating stove burns and kitchen knife cuts.
You stepped back into the living room with the small emergency kit in your hands, the plastic case cool and a little slippery against your palm. Taehyung was sitting on the floor, back resting against the base of the couch, knees bent and arms loose across them.
At least he had turned on the warm lamp in the corner between the wall and the couch; its low glow spilled across the rug and caught on the edge of his jaw. The rest of the apartment stayed dim and quiet, the kind of late-night hush that made every small sound feel close.
“When I told you to sit anywhere, I meant like the couch, or a chair.” you said, the words soft around the edges of a small smile as you eyed him there on the floor.
“Your couch is too clean and my clothes are dirty from falling on the floor.” he answered, voice lower than usual, eyes round and almost innocent in the lamplight. The sharpness from earlier at the bar had smoothed out of him, leaving something quieter, almost careful.
“That’s very thoughtful.”
You hadn’t expected that look from him, or how much the room had settled now that the two of you were alone and away from everything outside. The quiet pressed in from all sides, warm and a little unsteady, but not uncomfortable. You felt it in the way your steps slowed as you moved closer, the way the floorboards creaked faintly under your weight.
You lowered yourself to the rug right next to him, close enough that your knee brushed the side of his thigh when you settled. The emergency kit went on the low coffee table with a quiet plastic click. You opened the lid and let your fingers move through the supplies, checking what you had, buying a second to steady the way your pulse had picked up.
“Can I?” you asked, barely above a whisper so it wouldn’t break whatever new space had opened between you. He nodded once. “It might hurt.”
“‘is okay.” he said, the words almost slurred, tired.
Taehyung turned his face toward you and leaned in just a little, offering the cut along his brow bone, the tiniest cut at the bridge of his elegant nose. The movement brought him closer than you had ever been, close enough that you caught the faint warmth of his breath and the clean salt smell of his skin.
It made the work easier, sure, but it did nothing to quiet the heavy thud of your heart. Your fingers stayed gentle as you dabbed at the dried blood with a cotton pad wet with the bottled saline solution, the cotton pad coming away faintly pink.
“I didn’t know you were like that.” he spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“Like how?” you asked, exchanging the cotton pad to a new one to clean the dry blood under his nose above his lips, noticing the faint moles he had there.
“Bratty.” he chuckled before clarifying: “When you threatened to tell my supervisor.”
“I'm not bratty–” you gasped at the accusation, which only made him laugh harder and wince from the pain it caused. “I've just been around military men my whole life, the bar is two blocks away from the base. You learn how to deal with guys like you.”
“I can see that.” if he minded what you said, he didn’t show.
Because telling Taehyung that you’ve never met someone like him in your life felt too forward. Too telling.
The ice he had pressed to his face earlier had done its job; the swelling on his cheek bone had gone down, but you could already see the bruise blooming underneath, deep purple at the edge that would darken more by morning.
You studied his face while you worked, letting yourself look longer than you needed to; he had a small mole just below his right eye, too. Your thumb brushed the skin beside the cut on his brow, light as you could make it, checking for anything you might have missed, and you felt the small shift in his breath when you did.
You kept your touches careful, the guilt sitting heavy but quiet in your chest, showing only in the way you lingered a second longer than necessary, the way you made sure nothing hurt more than it had to. He was here because of you, and now he was in your space, tired and close and looking at you like the rest of the world had fallen away.
You didn’t say any of it, you just kept working, slow and steady.
You held the side of his face with careful fingers, just to turn his cheek more fully toward the lamplight. But you couldn’t help but drag your thumb across the smooth skin of his good cheekbone, feeling the faint warmth and the small shift under your touch. You didn’t know when you would ever have the chance to touch him like this again.
The thought made you feel bad, because you didn’t want this if it meant he was hurting. Your hands dropped back to your lap as you decided you were done cleaning him up.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, the words quiet, almost like the lack of your touch had bothered him too.
“Of course.” you nodded and reached for the kit, fingers moving through the small packets until you found the tube of ointment.
“How do you know so much about the military?” he said. “Because working close to the camp doesn’t explain how you know our mottos.”
“My dad was a Lieutenant Colonel at your camp.” It felt easy to say it to him.
If it had been anyone else, you would have avoided speaking altogether. Taehyung let that sink in, and you could see the way his brain worked as he tried to remember everyone he knew at the camp, the stories he had heard about fallen heroes.
“Park?” he repeated your last name, and you nodded. So he made the connection. “‘The’ Lieutenant Colonel Park?”
“So you heard of him.” you looked down at the ointment bottle in your hand, turning it slowly and pretending really hard to read the expiration date as if it was more important than his recent discovery.
You kept turning the ointment tube between your fingers, the plastic smooth and cool, while Taehyung’s voice filled the small space between you.
“Every member of the special unit has. He’s a hero.” he said, the words warm with clear admiration. Then his tone softened, almost careful: “Was… I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words settled over you, the kindness in which Tae offered them to you.
Your father had been kind in a way that made people trust him without questioning, brave enough to spend his whole life in the military, the kind of man who would have been working alongside Taehyung right now if things had gone differently.
The mission that got him killed had been labeled routine, something easy that he’d done a dozen times before. You had been fifteen when the call came, old enough to understand that he sacrificed himself to protect his squad, but not brave enough to ask for the rest of the details.
And you still weren’t. All you had ever needed to know was that he had died doing what he always did, looking out for the people around him.
“Thank you.” you said, the smile small and genuine because his condolences didn’t feel like politeness. They felt real. “Yeah, that’s how I know so much. I grew up around it.”
Taehyung stayed quiet for a beat, then his voice came again, still soft but carrying a new edge of boldness as he said:
“I was thinking you had a military boyfriend serving somewhere.” he sounded almost playful. “Had hoped it could at least be an ex.”
“No military boyfriend.” you laughed, the sound shy and too full of everything you felt for this man, heat rising fast in your face. “No exes either.”
You reached for the cap for the ointment tube, fingers a little unsteady as you tried to twist it. Before you could manage it, Taehyung’s hand moved over yours, warm and steady, covering it completely. You looked up then, and his face was close enough that you could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark eyes and the way his gaze had dropped to your mouth, open and unguarded.
Your heart fluttered hard against your ribs, making it difficult to pull in a full breath, but the closeness felt right too, like he was sharing his own air with you.
“Don’t look at me like that…” you murmured, the words barely loud enough to be heard.
“Why?” his free hand lifted, brushing the smallest strand of hair behind your ear. His voice had gone low and raspy, the sound brushing across your skin.
“Because I have rules.” you fought to hold his eyes even as warmth flooded your cheeks and neck, the heat making your pulse feel too loud.
“What kind?” he asked, just as low.
“The kind that doesn’t let me get involved with people who leave.”
You didn’t mean that whatever this was had to last forever, you just wanted the possibility that someone might stay long enough for it to matter. In nine months, Taehyung’s service would end and he would go back to Seoul and his famous friends and expensive life. You couldn’t let yourself start something that had an expiration date already written on it.
Taehyung’s thumb kept moving in that slow, careful stroke, his hand still warm over yours on the ointment tube.
“I’m really good at breaking rules, hustler.” he rasped, and that stupid nickname was all it took.
Because when so many people in your life had already left you, what was one more?
You leaned in before you could talk yourself out of it, closing the last inch and pressing your mouth to his. For half a second he went completely still against you, surprised, and then you felt the grin slowly curve against your lips. His hand moved to the back of your neck, palm broad and steady, fingers sliding into your hair as he pulled you closer.
The kiss started gentle, careful, just the soft warmth of his lips meeting yours and the shared, slightly shaky breath between you, but neither of you could keep it that way for long.
The kiss deepened slowly, growing heavier, like the relief of finally giving in was too much to hold back. His tongue traced the seam of your lips and you gasped softly, parting for him without thinking. The first slow slide of his tongue against yours sent heat blooming low in your stomach.
He tasted faintly sweet, and the way he explored your mouth was unhurried, thorough, and hungry, making your fingers curl into the front of his stained shirt. His hand at your neck tightened just slightly, thumb pressing into the sensitive skin below your hairline as he tilted his head and kissed you deeper, slower, like he wanted to learn every part of the way you felt against him.
Your heart hammered hard in your chest and you could feel the steady thud of his pulse too where your bodies pressed closer together, his chest rising and falling against yours.
When Taehyung tried to tilt his head to the other side, his nose brushed yours, and he winced. You pulled back instantly, eyes searching his face.
“That wasn’t you.” he assured you with a chuckle. “My nose still hurts.”
“Sorry.” you said, sheepish, heat still burning across your cheeks. Then, because your curiosity always won in the end, you asked: “Was that your first kiss since you joined the military?”
“It’s been longer than that.” he admitted, no shame in it at all, his lips still brushing against yours with every word. “Could you tell?”
“A little,” you answered, smiling. “But I liked it.”
You leaned forward again and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging gently before letting it go. The sound he made then, a low, surprised moan that vibrated against your mouth, might have been the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. His breath hitched hard.
“Stop hustling me.” he said, sounding completely wrecked and out of breath. You were the one grinning now. “I literally cannot take this teasing right now.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t ask you to take off your shirt, then?” your head tilted in a way you had definitely picked up from him.
Taehyung actually groaned, eyes falling shut for a second like the words had hit him somewhere deep. Somewhere low. When he opened them again the look he gave you was so openly hungry it made your stomach flip. You lifted the ointment a little higher, voice softer now but still teasing:
“I need to take a look at those ribs.”
-
-
The bed Taehyung slept on nowadays was a lot more comfortable than the ones in the communal tents new recruits were put in during their first two weeks at the base, and incomparably better than the sleeping bag he resorted to whenever they had field trips in the forest.
But he still couldn’t find a good position to lay in, when everything around him annoyed him. The bedroom was too empty of the things that brought him joy; there were no paintings on the walls, no other furniture beside the two bunk beds and small lockers where his belongings were shoved into. There was no color besides green and grey, no record collection, no distractions other than the one book he’d stolen from Namjoon, and most definitely no you.
“Are you gonna be sulking all day?” Ji-hoon snorted from the bed next to Taehyung’s as he tied up his boots tight enough so they wouldn’t fall off his feet during training today.
“What do you think, hyung?” Taehyung just grumbled, crossing his arms to his chest and looking annoyed as fuck.
“I think you should be grateful that you got away with a ‘day off’ and not a write up.” Ji-hoon was annoyed about Taehyung’s annoyance, picking the crisp white pillow from Minseok’s bed and throwing it at him.
Taehyung caught it right away, throwing it across the room instead. “It’s not a day off if I can’t leave the camp, is it?”
“Would you rather I tell Lieutenant Jung that you’re feeling well enough to run the drills today?” his friend threatened, and Taehyung held his tongue, because he did have a point. “Maybe I’ll strap an extra 20kg to your bag for almost breaking your face.”
“I was defending my girl, doesn’t that count for shit in this camp?” he grumbled under his breath.
Ji-hoon took a long and hard look at Taehyung then, the kind that told Tae that hearing him refer to you as his girl softened something reluctant in Ji-hoon. Maybe it was that claim itself that finally sold Ji-hoon on the fact that Taehyung was serious about you.
And then Ji-hoon was letting out the world’s longest sigh as he stood up from Minseok’s bottom bunkbed and walked all the way to the corner of the room.
“It does, because that girl is like a sister to me.” Ji-hoon replied. Kneeling on the floor just off to the side of his locker. “Which is why I’m going to show you something, but I swear to fucking god, if you mess this up–”
That had Taehyung’s interest growing exponentially, sitting up so he could watch the other man shove his arm behind the locker and feel around as he looked for something.
“Don’t tell me you have drugs in there.”
“Shut up.” Ji-hoon hissed, then pulled out a brown paper envelope and from inside of it, he produced a cellphone. “This is private.”
“Shit.” Taehyung’s eyes went wide with the thought of his friend hiding a phone in their room, where it was strictly prohibited to have any type of communication with the outside world. “You mean contraband?”
“In here, that’s the same thing.” Ji-hoon stood up and walked back to Taehyung, turning on the phone.
“Why are you showing me this?” he asked.
“Because you won’t be able to see your girl again before the summer festival, and I don’t want to come back here and after a long day and have to hear you complaining about it.” Ji-hoon was not wrong about that, but Taehyung also didn't say that.
Instead, he let hope replace frustration. “So I can call her?!”
“Yeah, but be fucking quiet about it?!” Ji-hoon hushed, looking at the door as if expecting Major Jungwi to come bust their asses at any moment. “We could both get kicked out if they find you with this.”
“Thanks, hyung.”
Taehyung got up from his bunkbed and hugged Ji-hoon, holding the older man's head to kiss his forehead with a smack. It made Ji-hoon complain with a grunt and push him off without real strength, handing Taehyung the phone with one last warning look.
“Her number is already saved there. Just don’t call anyone else.” Ji-hoon warned, walking to the door before he was late. “And don’t fucking look at the camera roll.”
Taehyung laughed. “Would I find Mina’s nudes?”
“And my fucking dick, so it’s up to you.”
Taehyung waited for his friend to leave before locking the door and securing it. If one of the Majors really wanted to get into this room, they would definitely have the master keys, but at least it would give Taehyung enough time to hide the phone before they did.
Nowadays, in his rank and division, Taehyung was allowed a lot more freedom when it came to calls and using his own private phone, but there were still rules about it. Like no phones in the bedrooms, and no unsupervised use while inside the base grounds.
So just by holding this phone right now, Taehyung could go to jail. But at least you'd be his last phone call.
Taehyung was relieved to find the phone had no password, which sounded a little reckless when he thought about it, but it made it easier to go into the short list of contacts and find your name.
A few beeps later, the call connected. At least he thought it did, but you still didn't say anything.
“Hey, hustler.”
“Tae?” you finally replied, along with a breath of relief.
“Forgot my voice already?” Taehyung laid back down against his thin pillow, ignoring how the back bar of the bed dug into his shoulders.
“No, I just…” you hesitated a little, then your explanation made him feel bad. “This is an unknown number, so I thought it could be Mr. Han.”
“Fuck, I should have texted…” he winced at his own lack of common sense. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I’m glad it’s you.” you were smiling on the other side, he could hear it in your tone. “How is it you, by the way? Usually the camp calls go through a landline and they tell you who’s calling before they transfer.”
“I told you I’m good at breaking rules.” the excitement from talking to you like this beat any anxiety from breaking said rules, but he was still careful with the volume of his voice.
“Who’s the hustler now, huh?”
He grinned. “Still you.”
Taehyung looked at the door of the bedroom when he heard rushed footsteps approach, the unmistakable sound of heavy boots he was more than used to against the concrete floor. He held his breath for a moment, but then the steps went away and down the corridor; someone was probably late for drills. Yikes.
“Did you get into too much trouble, with your face and bruises?” you asked, shuffling slightly on the other side of the line.
“Nah, hyung covered for me. Said we were training and I fell from the climbing wall.” Tae chuckled, remembering how he had to act it out for their superiors that his wounds were a few hours fresher than they were.
“That’s good.” a yawn. Damn, it was still early, Taehyung didn’t even think that he could have woken you up. “Did they let you rest?”
“Yeah, I’m having time off.” even if it felt like jail time. “But I can’t leave the base camp, so I’m stuck here.”
“Oh.”
Something in your tone shifted around that tiny sound, and Taehyung couldn’t help it:
“You sound disappointed.”
“Do you want me to be?” your voice was so soft that you couldn’t have been awake for longer than an hour.
“Are you?” he pressed, hoping you might indulge him.
“Yes.” and you did. “But I’m glad you could at least call.”
“Me too.” the hand that wasn’t holding the phone against his ear moved behind his head for extra support and comfort. “I was gonna go crazy just staring at the ceiling all day.”
“Are you at the top bunk?” you asked, curious, and Taehyung looked around as if about to describe the room for you to picture it.
“No, the bottom.” he looked up again, seeing the bottom of Ji-hoon's bunk staring back at him. “So I guess I’d be staring at wood planks.”
“I wonder how much the rooms have changed since I was there last.” you said, and it was easy for Taehyung’s imagination to picture you there.
“Did you ever come here with your dad?” he asked you as carefully as he could manage, given the delicate subject. He didn’t want this conversation to turn sour.
“All the time.” your tone stayed light. “I actually loved it there.”
Taehyung scoffed lightly. “Easy for you to love it when you’re not forced to stay here.”
“Are you looking forward to leaving?”
Your question came out locked and loaded, with so many nuances around it that it made Taehyung sit with it for longer than he should. Did he enjoy this same everyday routine? No. Did he miss his family, his friends and members? Yes. Was he ready to be on stage again? Desperately. Was he looking forward to leaving?
You cleared your throat. “Sorry, that was too much.”
“It wasn’t,” he shook his head for the ghosts in the room. “It’s just that I was surprised by how fast I wanted to say I’m not.”
“What makes you want to stay?” you asked, knowing the answer for it already.
“There you go, hustling me again.” Taehyung smiled, chest lighter than it felt in months.
“I’m just saying, if one kiss was enough to change your mind,” you started, sounding too nonchalant for the words that came out of your mouth next: “How will you feel when I really get my hands on you?”
“Well, fuck.”
Taehyung couldn’t hold back the curse, not expecting this to be the direction this conversation took whatsoever. Like at all. His reaction and little choppy breath made you giggle on the other side of the line, like that was exactly you were expecting.
“Are you at the bar?” he asked, because that information seemed important if you were going to start talking like this.
“Nop. Still in bed.” as if to prove it, you let out a long groan that was followed by the rustling of sheets, as if you were stretching. “Gave myself a late morning today, Sana can open for lunch.”
Taehyung definitely thought you deserved a break, and he didn't need to be a genius to know you didn't allow yourself many of those. You were his little hustler, after all.
And then his mind went places.
He hadn't been to your room last night, stayed in the living room like a good boy, but he wondered if it was just as girly and pretty as the rest of it. If your bed was big enough for everything he wanted to do to you on it.
“You went awfully quiet.” you noticed, too innocently. And then surprised him again: “Won’t even ask me what I’m wearing?”
“I have more class than that.” his laugh was always easy with you, ridiculously so. “And you’re bold over the phone.”
“I’m bold in real life, too, just not with you.” you admitted. “You make me nervous.”
“Good nervous?” he asked, a little too interested in the answer.
You hesitated before the words came, soft and steady. “The type of nervous that would make me do anything you ask.”
He nodded to himself, the movement small against the thin pillow. There was nothing he could say to that without pushing things further, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure you.
Then you took his breath away completely:
“Does your door lock?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping without meaning to. “Why?”
“Because I’ll do anything you ask over the phone, too.”
Taehyung’s body reacted instantly. Heat rushed low in his stomach as his cock twitched hard inside his pants, already more than halfway hard from every teasing word and little sound you had made. He shifted his hips on the mattress, trying to ease the sudden ache, but it only made the fabric pull tighter against him.
“It’s locked, hustler.” he could hear how low his own voice had gone. “Now tell me… what’s going through your mind?”
“Just hoping you’ll kiss me again when I see you next.” you said, the words gentler now. He heard the soft rustle of sheets on your end and pictured you turning onto your stomach, legs shifting under the covers because talking to him like this made you too restless to stay still.
“Is that the only thing you want me to do when I see you?” he wanted to push you just a little, see how far you would let him take this.
“Not really…”
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he said when your answer didn’t feel like enough. “A minute ago you had more words than that.”
“That’s because picturing you in your bed right now is making it hard to think.” your laugh came through the phone, soft and a little embarrassed, followed by more shuffling.
“What is it you’re picturing?” his free hand slid down his own stomach and pressed against the growing bulge in his camo pants, giving himself some slow relief. “I might tell you if you’re right.”
“I don’t have a uniform kink,” you said after a thoughtful pause, “But it looks too good on you, so I think you’re wearing that.”
He glanced down at himself, smiling at your easy guess. “I am.”
“And I also think you’re starting to get hard.” your voice had gone dulcet, almost sweet, and it made his cock jump again under his palm.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he clicked his tongue. “I’ve been hard since you picked up the phone.”
“I also think you’re big.” the words came out like a whine and he bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to feel the sting.
“You think what is big, hustler?” he pressed again, voice rougher now.
“Are you gonna make me say it?” you groaned, the sound sending another pulse straight to his cock.
“If you want to have it next time I see you.” he threatened, low and steady.
Taehyung waited, patient. He had nothing else to do today and the hallway outside had gone blissfully quiet, so he could let you take your time. His body didn’t agree, as his cock jumped inside his pants at every soft breath he caught from your side of the line.
“I think you have a big cock, Tae.” you said at last, the words careful. “And that I might have trouble fitting it in.”
“I’ll make sure it does.” he answered, voice low as he squeezed himself through the fabric, trying to hold back the sudden flash of pushing into your tightness. If he let the full picture form in his mind he would be finished.
“Can I have it in my mouth first?” the plea came soft and open, and his eyes fluttered shut for a second.
“You can have it anywhere you want.” he nodded to the empty room, the motion small against the thin pillow. “Do you like sucking cock?”
“I never tried it,” you admitted. “Guys have asked before. I just never did it.”
A quick, sharp twist moved through his chest at the mention of anyone else being close enough for asking, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the way your voice sounded right now. “Why do you want to do it now?”
“Because it’s you,” you said, and he could hear the smile in it. “And because I heard how you sound when you moan. I bet I can pull more of those with just my mouth.”
“I’ll make you work for it.” he warned, stroking himself slowly over his pants, the pressure enough to make his hips shift on the mattress.
“Don’t you mean you’ll make me ‘hustle’ for it?” you giggled, light and teasing, and Taehyung let out a frustrated groan.
“Damn, that was a perfect one. I can’t believe I missed that.” he laughed again. “You’re making it hard for me to think straight, too.”
“Are you touching yourself, Tae?” his nick name sounded too intimate when you said it like that.
“Just over my pants.” he told you, grimacing at how tight the fabric felt. “Scared I might burst as soon as I touch it for real.”
“You haven’t jerked off since you’ve been in here?” the teasing tone was impossible to miss.
“It’s kinda hard to find alone time in here, and when I have days off I’m still not alone.” another downside of being enlisted that he wouldn’t miss.
“That kinda makes me want to hang up.” you sounded like a little devil. “Save all that pent-up energy so you can paint my tits instead.”
“Fuck–”
The line went silent against his ear, so Taehyung pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. You had actually hung up! He snorted, half in disbelief and half in helpless amusement, then called you back right away. Three long rings passed and his stomach tightened with the ridiculous fear that you might actually stay true to your word and not pick up again.
But of course you did.
“The fuck.” he complained.
You laughed on the other end, clearly delighted with yourself for the little stunt you had just pulled. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”
“That was cute.” he warned. “But don’t do it again.”
“Is that a threat?” there was more shuffling on your end, and he pictured you pushing yourself up to sit against the headboard of your bed. He imagined it in some soft, non-obvious color, maybe butter yellow.
“It’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” the words hit him low in the stomach.
“Good girl.” he heard the small gasp you let out and filed it away in his mind like something precious. “I might just paint your face instead.”
The moan that left you then was high-pitched and needy, and it went straight to his already aching cock. Taehyung wanted to hear that sound again and again.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asked.
“I have way less self-control than you…” you mused. He could hear your breathing growing deeper, heavier.
“Maybe I should make us even and hang up too,” he tried, though you both knew it was an empty threat.
“You won’t.” you called his bluff without hesitation. “You want to hear me fuck my fingers.”
He pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a second, fighting a grin.
“Put me on speaker and place the phone on your pillow.” he waited until he heard the faint click and the change in sound quality. “Now take off your underwear and tell me how wet you are.”
“Shit…” you cursed softly. There was a pause, the rustle of fabric, and then your voice returned. “It’s very wet.”
“Words, baby.”
“My pussy is wet, Tae… Fuck.” you sounded annoyed at having to spell it out, and he found that ridiculously hot.
“Don’t get mouthy on me now.” he said, trying to sound stern even as a wide grin spread across his face.
“Then you better come here and make it busy then.” you snapped back, though the small whimper at the end ruined any real bite.
“I can make it busy from right here.” his head tilted out of habit. “Take those fingers out of your pussy and bring them to your mouth. Let me hear you suck on them like you want to do to my cock.”
You obeyed without hesitation. The wet, obscene sound of you sucking on your own fingers came through the phone, and Taehyung’s eyes slipped shut. The image hit him hard, you on your knees in front of him, pretty mouth stretched wide around his cock, cheeks hollowed, those same wet sounds echoing while you looked up at him with watery eyes. The fantasy was so vivid his breath caught.
He quickly wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, freeing both hands. Fingers worked fast on his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly, then the button and zipper of his camo pants. He shoved everything down just far enough to pull his cock out. It sprang free, heavy and aching, the head already slick with pre-cum that smeared across his palm when he wrapped his fingers around the base.
“Fuck…” he breathed, squeezing hard at the root to keep himself in check.
He was leaking steadily now, throbbing in time with every wet suck and slurp coming from the phone. The pressure built so fast he had to drag in a slow, deep breath, chest rising sharply.
And then you gagged.
The choked little sound went straight through him. His hips twitched up into his fist on instinct, another bead of pre-cum sliding down the length of his cock as he pictured your throat tightening around him.
“Take them out, baby,” he said, voice low and steady. “Slow. And bring them down between your legs. I want you to circle your clit for me.”
There was a soft, shaky exhale on your end as you obeyed. He heard the faint shift of sheets again.
“Tell me how it feels,” he continued, keeping his tone calm even as heat coiled tighter in his stomach. “Is it swollen? How wet are you right now?”
“It’s… really sensitive.” you answered, already a little breathy. “And swollen, yeah. I’m so wet, Tae. It’s embarrassing.”
He smiled to himself, the confession going straight to his cock just like everything else you were doing.
“Nothing embarrassing about it.” he reassured you, just in case you needed it. “Spread that wetness around. Nice slow circles. Just like I’d do with my tongue if I was there.”
A small whine slipped out of you. “Feels good… but it’s not enough. I want more.”
“I know.” he murmured. “Keep going. Tell me every time it feels better.”
While he listened to your breathing grow heavier, Taehyung brought his free hand to his mouth and spit into his palm. There was no lotion or lube in this bare room, and he wasn’t about to start wondering what else Ji-hoon or Minseok might have hidden. Instead he wrapped the slick hand around his cock and started stroking himself in long, lazy pulls, matching the slow rhythm he was giving you. The wet sound of his own hand was quiet, but it mixed with your little gasps in a way that made his thighs tense.
After a few moments he spoke again:
“Now slide one finger inside, baby. Just one. Go slow… exactly how I would.”
You let out a soft moan as you did it. He could hear the faint, slick sound of your finger moving.
“Fuck… it feels nice but–” you complained, voice turning pouty.
“Add another one. Two fingers.” Taehyung chuckled under his breath, still stroking himself in that same unhurried pace. “Curl them up for me.”
You did, and the moan that followed was louder, needier.
“You know… I don’t think I have a g-spot. I think it’s a myth.” you told him out of blue and he couldn’t help the fondness to overtake him.
“It’s not a myth, hustler. I promise you.” he actually laughed, low and amused, hips rolling up into his fist once before he slowed himself again.
“I’ve searched for it before.” you grumbled, still sounding pouty even as your breath kept catching. “No one else– fuck– found it either…”
“Then you didn’t have the right person helping you.” he replied, voice warm but firm. “When I see you, I’m going to prove it. I’ll take my time, keep my fingers right there until your legs shake and you can’t even say my name properly.”
You whimpered at that, the sound turning into a shaky little moan as you kept moving your fingers. He answered with moans of his own, still stroking himself languidly, thumb brushing over the slick head of his cock on every upstroke.
“Faster now.” he told you, his own hand still moving in those slow, lazy strokes along his cock. “Rub your clit while you fuck yourself with those fingers. Don’t be gentle about it.”
You obeyed instantly, the change in sound was immediate; wetter, quicker, more urgent. Your breathing fractured into shaky little gasps that quickly turned into moans.
“Tae…” you whimpered, his name already sounding broken.
“That’s it.” he murmured, eyes half-closed as he pictured you spread out on your bed. “If I was there right now I’d push your thighs open wider and bury my face between them. I’d lick you so slow at first, just dragging my tongue over that swollen clit until you’re shaking. Then I’d suck on it, hard, the way you need it.”
A loud, needy moan spilled out of you. “Oh my god, Tae– please–”
“I’d slide my tongue inside you too, taste how wet you are for me. Keep fucking you with it while my thumb rubs your clit.” he kept talking, voice steady even as his own cock throbbed hot and heavy in his fist. “You’d be pulling my hair, wouldn’t you? Trying to keep my mouth right there.”
“Yes–, yes, I would.” you gasped, the words tumbling out faster. “Tae, I’m so close already…”
Your voice was getting higher, more desperate, every moan and broken breath feeding straight into him. He stroked himself a little tighter, matching the rhythm he could hear in your fingers.
Then he heard the tell-tale hitch in your breathing, the way your moans started pitching up further.
“Slow down.” he ordered suddenly, firm. “Stop moving your fingers.”
“What, why–” a frustrated whine tore out of you, but you still obeyed. “I was so close–”
“I want to hear you beg for it.” he gave his cock one slow tug, then stopped too, letting the ache settle deep. “Come on, hustler. Use that pretty mouth and tell me how badly you need to cum.”
You stayed quiet for a second, breathing hard. Then another small, embarrassed whimper came through the line.
“Please, Tae… I need it. I’m so wet it’s dripping down my thighs and I– I can’t think straight. Please let me cum.”
“Alright, baby.” he said, voice rough. “Fuck yourself harder now. Two fingers, deep. And keep rubbing your clit.”
“Fuck, yes–” you moaned loudly in response, the wet sounds from your fingers growing faster and messier.
“That’s it. Just like that.” he matched you, stroking his cock quicker, fist tight and slick. “When I finally get my hands on you I’m gonna cum all over your tits… Then your face if you’re good for me.”
Your moan cracked into a desperate whine, his name spilling out again and again. The sounds you made, high, needy, and completely unrestrained, pushed him right to the edge. He barely managed to yank his shirt up with his free hand before heat slammed through him.
You came first, your moan broke into a long, shaky cry as your orgasm hit, and the sweet, filthy noises you made tipped him over instantly. Taehyung groaned deep in his chest, hips jerking as he spilled across his own stomach in thick, warm stripes. He kept stroking himself through it, breathing hard, until the last pulse faded.
For a moment there was only the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.
“Did you cum?” you asked, soft and content, a little smile in your voice.
“All over myself.” he laughed, still blissed out and slightly dazed. “Made a fucking mess I don’t know how I’ll clean up.”
“Sucks to be you.” you giggled, light and playful.
“Come here and clean it yourself, hustler.” he shot back, grinning even as he shook his head.
You moaned again at that, the sound low and warm, and his grin widened.
“Come here and cuddle me…” you told him in return, voice sweet and a little shy now.
His chest tightened, because he wanted that so badly it almost hurt. Stupid fucking rules that prevented him from taking his bike all the way to your apartment complex so he could do exactly that. And then go for rounds two and three.
You both stayed silent for a while, just breathing together through the phone. The quiet felt comfortable, but a small worry still sat in his chest.
“You know I won’t be able to see you before the festival, yeah?” he asked, careful. Taehyung didn’t want you thinking he was avoiding you or that he didn’t want to see you. That was the last thing he needed you to believe.
“Duty over matter,” you repeated the motto softly. “I know, Tae. Don’t worry.”
“The next four days are gonna suck.” he groaned, the tension in his shoulders easing a little at your calm tone.
“I’ll make it worth the wait.”
-
-
The SDT military base was already a little different than you remembered from the last time you’ve been here, the gates seemed smaller and the facial recognition system was definitely new. You were just led through security, along with a few of the many family members and friends that were slowly arriving at the Summer Fest for a day of organized fun. You adjusted the strap of your small crossbody bag on your shoulder, the one they had let you keep after a quick check at the gate.
The morning air still carried a cool bite, fresh wind brushing across your arms and tugging lightly at your hair as you stepped further onto the wide open grounds. The main administration building stood solid in the distance, its grey walls catching the early sunlight, while white or green tents and long picnic tables had been set up across the central field for later lunches and activities. Further to the right you could just make out the familiar outline of the drill course, ropes and barriers quiet for now.
Families moved in small groups, voices mixing with laughter and the occasional call of a name, while soldiers in neat training uniforms worked to keep everything running smoothly or waited near the edges, shifting on their feet as they scanned the arriving crowd for their own people.
The whole place felt lighter today, the usual heavy rhythm of drills replaced by something more alive. Even with all the small changes over the years, the layout still pulled at something deep in your chest, familiar in the way that made your breath catch.
You refused to think about a much younger version of you, running around this space as if it was your own private playground, knowing that the soldier you always came to see in that memory would no longer be here.
You kept walking forward at a measured pace, even though every step felt like it wanted to turn into a run because not too far ahead, a small group of too familiar men stood together near one of the open fields, their laughter carrying clearly across the neat grass.
Ji-hoon and Minseok were easy to spot, both in their darker working uniforms, shoulders relaxed as they bickered about something with easy familiarity. And then there was Taehyung, a little apart from them in his short-sleeved black SDT shirt that looked a size too small on his wider frame, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. His muscles shifted visibly under it as he laughed at whatever the others had said, thick arms and neck on full display, veins standing out along his forearms.
If you looked hard enough, you knew you could just make out the faint lines of his abs through the front of the shirt. His dark green camo pants sat low on his narrow waist, the belt cinched tight enough to make his thighs look even more pronounced, and the black combat boots added extra height to his already tall frame.
God, he looked even more handsome than you remembered, face lit up from whatever they were teasing him about, hair a bit messy from the wind.
Nothing about him was fair, if you could say so yourself.
Ji-hoon noticed you first, saying something short to Taehyung, a quick tilt of his head in your direction, and Tae’s head snapped around so fast it was almost comical. His eyes found you almost immediately after that, and his whole face changed to that bright, boyish smile breaking across it like sunlight hitting water.
Your heart started doing drills of its own inside your chest, quick and insistent, the kind that made your steps falter for half a second before you forced them steady again. After four days of nothing but that one phone call and the memory of his voice whispering filth, seeing him in person again felt like the air had shifted.
“Hi, Taetae.” you greeted him with a smile, ignoring the shyness that tried to replace your usually assertive self.
“Hi–” his breath got caught somewhere in his throat as he looked you over. “Jesus christ, hustler.”
“What did I do for you to be calling me a hustler already?” you laughed, shaking your head, but his eyes were already telling enough.
“Your dress.” one of his eyebrows twitched.
“Do you not like it?” you played coy, giving him a little twirl so he could see the whole thing.
The white sundress was innocent enough at first glance, the kind of thing that looked sweet and well-behaved with its short sleeves that covered just enough of your shoulders to be considered respectful, and the tiered skirt that swayed around your thighs.
But the thin strings tied into a bow at the front of the square neckline pulled your breasts together in a way that made them sit full and inviting, and the smocked top cinched snug around your waist before flaring out into soft, flowy layers over your hips. This dress had been Mina’s idea, and you had been reluctant about it at first, but seeing the way Taehyung’s gaze kept drifting down and then back up to your face, you had to admit she had been right.
“I like it a little too much.” Taehyung spoke under his breath, an arm pulling her closer by the waist, kissing her cheek in what should have been a simple greeting if it didn’t land a little too closely to the corner of her glossy lips.
“Behave.” you chuckled, but leaned into his greeting regardless. “All your officers are watching.”
“I can’t believe you really came.” Ji-hoon greeted you next, but kept his distance and his hands to himself. His posture told you he was on full duty today. “We didn’t believe you two were really… Y’know.”
“We’re getting to know each other.” you said, clarifying to Ji-hoon and Minseok.
Taehyung disagreed. “Nah, you’re mine.”
“Oh, really?” you scoffed, because such discussion had never happened, and you were an old school kind of girl.
That apparently involved herself in phone sex before said discussion actually happened, but you never claimed to be perfect.
“He’s been saying you’re his girl for days.” Minseok added with a grimace. “It’s a little awkward if you don’t agree.”
“We’ll see how today goes.” you said, picking up on the boys’ obvious wingman tactics, placing your arm around Tae’s waist when his arm was still around you, too. “Are you working on any of the booths?”
“We’re on hot dog duty later.” Ji-hoon replied, sending Taehyung a pointed look. “Someone else was supposed to be too, but he’s the captain’s favorite.”
“I just beat all of you in training every week, so I earned this.” Taehyung justified his freedom today, and you were happy to know he could be with you all day. Then he looked at you and grinned: “I'm a Special Warrior now.”
“Are you really?” you gasped, eyebrows raising.
“Yeah.” he nodded with a mix of quiet pride and modesty. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
Taehyung’s arm moved from its perch around you so he could show you the side of his sleeve, which had a sown in patch that held his newest title change. You touched him arm to give it a squeeze that was supposed to show your excitement as you said:
“Oh, I’m so proud of you.” then you pulled him into a hug, breathing in his must and smelling the faintest bit of aftershave. “Next time you come to the bar, we’ll all celebrate.”
“I have other plans of how we can celebrate, but okay.” Taehyung shrugged, and your neck went a little hot from the way his hand squeezed your waist.
So he was still just as eager as he’d been on the phone. Just as eager as you. Good.
“Are your family members coming?” you asked the other two, just because going this route with Tae right now was dangerous.
“Maybe later.” Ji-hoon shrugged, his family lived locally, so he saw them regularly already.
“My brother might.” Minseok shrugged, not sounding so sure. Then he asked Taehyung: “He’s serving in the same division as your hyung, right?”
“Namjoon-hyung, yeah.” Taehyung nodded, but his eyes returned to you like he couldn’t get enough.
“Okay, we better go.” Ji-hoon said, looking around as some of the more official looking men started approaching to make sure everyone else was doing their job. “Come find us later, let us serve you, for once.”
“You got it.” you had no trouble agreeing with that.
You watched as the two of them marched away, postures tight and hands on their belt lops, very much into the Military Men persona they had to pull off while inside these grounds and nothing like the friends you were to seeing at the bar.
“What do you want to do first?” Taehyung asked you, giving you the freedom to make the calls today.
Before you could run your mouth and say you’d be down for whatever as long as he was with you, you asked: “What’s on the schedule?”
“Opening ceremony starts at eleven, sharp. BBQ at twelve, I’m slotted for a competition at fifteen hundred.” he relayed the information with the formality of someone who was used to staring at bulletin boards too often. “Everything after that is optional, so we can skip those if you want.”
“Sounds fun.” you smiled, looking around. “Will you give me a tour?”
“I’m sure you know this place better than I do.” he chuckled, slipping his hand into yours. “But there’s somewhere I want to take you to, actually. You up for it?”
“Of course.”
Taehyung led you deeper into the grounds, away from the main bustle of families and activities. The path grew quieter, the fresh wind still brushing across your arms as the sun climbed higher. Behind the main administration building, sitting a little off in an open space, stood a low, concrete one-floor box. It looked bulky and formal, no windows, just a solid wooden door that seemed heavier than the rest of the camp’s architecture. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the difference in brightness.
The room was noticeably darker than the bright summer day outside, cooler too, the air conditioning humming steadily and raising goosebumps along your arms. Soft sconces lined the walls, their light mimicking the gentle flicker of candles. Rows of framed photographs covered the walls, each one paired with a small plaque bearing a name and a list of achievements. The space felt hushed, respectful, the kind of quiet that pressed gently against your chest.
“What is this place?” you asked quietly, already sensing the weight of the room. “I’ve never been here.”
“It’s the honor room.” Taehyung’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles on the back of it. “It holds the deeds of those who walked these halls and made a difference.”
“Do you think my dad…” you whispered, the words catching before you could finish.
“Come with me.”
He walked calmly, leading you deeper into the gallery-like space until you reached a more spacious alcove. Only one large photograph hung on the white wall there, a big achievement plaque mounted beneath it.
You stopped in front of it, throat tightening as you looked at the picture of your father in his favorite official uniform. He looked younger than you remembered him, but it was unmistakably him, the same steady eyes, the same quiet strength in his posture. The feeling of surprise and missing him lodged itself in your throat and sank heavy into your stomach. You held it back, never one to allow anyone to see you cry.
Your gaze shifted to the small flower holder hooked to the right of the frame, noticing how fresh flowers sat there, bright and carefully arranged. Taehyung noticed you looking at them, too.
“I, uh. I brought those.” he told you, not like he wanted to boast, but simply to show you respect. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course, Tae.” you noticed how tightly your hand was squeezing his. “But why?”
“I figured I’d introduce myself, since I’m dating his daughter.” he said, looking at the man in the photograph as if they were already familiar. Then he turned back to you and his eyes held yours. “Right?”
“You are.” you smiled, small but real, knowing that fighting both him and the heart in your chest would be easier said than done, especially after this. “He would have really liked you, you know?”
“You think?” Tae looked at you with a hopeful sparkle behind his eyes.
“You’re brave, loyal, and you’re also kind and dedicated to the team. Those are things he valued a lot.” you told him, as sure as the sky was blue. “And you treat me well. He’d value that most of all.”
Ever since he met you, Taehyung had seen more of the ugly parts of your life than you usually allowed people to. It was absolutely not on purpose and he just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and yet… He hadn’t run away yet.
In fact, he seemed to be intent on staying for as long as he could, as much as he was allowed to. And you had no idea what you’d done to deserve his attention and this level of dedication he kept showing you, but maybe for the first time in your life you could let your guards down around someone.
“He really was an impressive man. I mean, he had to be, to have a daughter like you.” Taehyung smiled, and you knew he meant well, but you still felt the sting at hearing that. “I’m sure he’s proud.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” you looked at the floor between you, but Taehyung didn’t allow you.
His hand let go of yours to gently lift your head back by tilting your chin: “What do you mean, hustler?”
“Do you really think he’d be proud of me when I haven’t been able to pay rent for the last three months? Going on four.” you chuckled under your breath, just because laughing at your misfortune meant you wouldn’t cry. “Or how I’m collateral for some old debt and might become a trophy wife to a loan shark’s son? Or how I’m running the bar to the ground and about to leave my employees without a job if I can’t make this work–”
“I think he’d be proud of you for taking on a debt that isn't yours and not running away because you’re not a coward.” Taehyung interrupted you, holding your face with both hands. The touch was gentle in the way he held you, but his eyes were firm like he was begging you for you to listen. “He’d be proud that you’re putting your own life on the line everyday to protect your employees and make sure they still have a warm plate of food every night when you’re living off ₩576 ramen every other day.”
“How–”
“I spied in your trashcan, but that’s not the point.” his thumb brushed your cheekbone, then his lips smoothed the lines between your brows. “And even going through all that, you still offer free food for school kids, and you still give free drinks to new customers.”
“Maybe that’s what’s taking my rent money.” you grumbled, smiling reluctantly.
“Your father would be proud of you.” Taehyung insisted before you could run away from the subject. “And I’m proud of you.”
You let out a long, dragged out sigh, allowing yourself to listen to his words, like he was trying to make you. You didn’t exactly agree with some of the things he said, because those were just the human thing to do, but you appreciated him pointing them out anyway. Because you were just a person trying to do the best with the cards life was dealing her. You didn’t always do well, but you still did all you could.
“You know, you’re not good for me.” you allowed yourself to take a step closer and rest your forehead against his chest, taking this quiet and empty space to be vulnerable.
“How?!” Taehyung laughed, and the rumble of it made you smile.
“I might actually fall for you, and then you’ll break my heart when you leave.” you murmured, but you knew he heard you when his breath caught. “But if I’m going to end up marrying someone I don’t love, at least I’ll experience it with you.”
“Don’t say that.” his hands held both of your arms, firm enough for you to feel the press of his fingers but not enough to hurt. You looked up at him to see the pain written all over his face, and you hated to be the one to put it there again. “I won’t let that happen.”
“You’re sweet for thinking you can stop it.”
You weren’t trying to sour the mood, but since Taehyung wanted to try to have a relationship with you, then he needed to know what he was getting himself into, while he still had the time to back down.
Chuncheon was a small town, and gossip spread fast, so you knew he probably heard by now that you were the promised collateral prize if you weren’t able to pay what your uncle owed Mr. Han. And the old shark was only making it more difficult for you to get out of that debt because Kai had been in love with you since your school years.
“Shouldn’t you be at the opening ceremony, Special Warrior Kim?” a new voice broke the bubble around you both.
The tone and the recognition made Taehyung take a step back and salute, posture snapping straight in the way military men did in the presence of higher officials. Your stomach twisted for a moment, thinking you might have gotten him in trouble, but then you looked at the official and instantly knew who he was.
“Sir, Lieutenant Sir.” Taehyung said, still at attention.
“Uncle Jung…” you greeted softly, almost like a whisper.
This man had been your father’s closest friend since before their military days, the one who had been in the same mission when your dad died, the one to bring his body home. The one your dad had sacrificed himself to save. You had loved him like part of the family, just like your dad had. But ever since the mess with your actual uncle started and you got tangled up with Mr. Han, you hadn’t seen Uncle Jung anymore.
Seeing you standing there with Taehyung was surprising for the new Lieutenant, but his hard stance broke when he recognized you, and he understood quickly why the two of you were both here with your father’s picture right there on the wall.
“At ease, soldier.” Uncle Jung said, and Taehyung relaxed his posture but kept his head slightly lowered in respect, hands clasped behind his back. The man’s tone turned warmer when he looked at you. “You haven’t been back in so long… How are you, Yn?”
“I’m good.” you smiled, bowing to the man in respect and greeting. “How have you been, sir? How’s Yeunja?”
“She moved to Seoul last year. She got a job at a big tech company.” Mr. Jung told you about his daughter, who had once been your best friend. “I’ll let her know I saw you.”
“Please. I’ll text her too. We can catch up whenever she visits.” you lied, when the last thing you wanted was to hear how your once best friend was living out a dream you had shared once, while you were stuck in this town forever.
“And how do you two know each other?” Uncle Jung asked, looking between you and Taehyung.
“If you’re asking as his superior, I don’t know him,” you said. “If you’re asking as my dad’s best friend, he’s my boyfriend.”
“Yes I am.” Taehyung confirmed, more for himself than anyone else.
“Well, then you and this boy you don’t know should get to the auditorium before you miss the opening ceremony.” Uncle Jung was back to his official posture, but the small twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away.
“Yes, Sir!”
-
-
“So this is where you live.” you said, looking around at the barren room.
Two bunk beds took up most of the space, the thin mattresses made up with military precision, and a couple of metal lockers stood against the far wall, their doors closed tight. There was no color, no personal touches, no softness except for the single thin pillows on each bed.
The air smelled faintly of clean laundry and the faint metallic tang of the building itself. It felt temporary, functional, and so unlike him that your chest ached a little at the thought of Taenhyung sleeping here day after day.
“It’s better than what I had when I first arrived, don’t feel too bad for me.” Taehyung was watching you watch the space, his back resting against the metal of his closed door.
“Which one is yours?” you asked as you pointed to the two bottom beds, remembering how he told you had one of those.
“The one on the left.” he nodded towards it, still watching you like you were a threat in the best way.
Like he didn’t want to miss a single movement of you in his space.
It was a little after twelve and the two of you should be having lunch with the rest of the visitors, but Taehyung asked if you wanted to see his room, and your hunger could wait a little longer. You walked to his bed slowly and sat down on the mattress, feeling how hard and creaky it was under your weight.
You really didn’t understand how the government never funded the military in ways that made the living situation better for the men putting their lives on the line for this country every day they spent in here, but it wasn’t exactly something you could change yourself.
Instead, you opened the small, locker style, steel nightstand on Taehyung’s side of the bottom bunk.
The owner chuckled as he asked: “What are you doing?”
“Snooping.” you shrugged, shameless. “You snooped in my trashcan, I can at least have this.”
“You won’t find anything interesting.” Taehyung said but didn’t stop you.
You weren’t looking for anything specific, just acting curious when you looked inside the locker, finding nothing but a book about a library, a nail clipper, reading glasses and a printed picture of a black and tan pomeranian puppy.
“Told you there’s nothing interesting here,” he said. “When you come visit me in Seoul, I’ll let you snoop in my whole apartment. That will be much more fun.”
There it was again, your heart doing the treacherous thing called hope.
“I can see at least one interesting thing in this room.” you said, changing the subject slightly, steering it somewhere a little safer.
Taehyung knew you meant him. His head tilted as he let his gaze travel slowly down your body and back up again, open and hungry. He licked between his lips, and a small metallic click cut through the quiet room. It took you a second to realize he had just locked the door.
Your breath caught.
He pushed away from the door and walked toward you in slow strides, patient and calm. You stayed where you were, even though every instinct told you to move, to run. Tae’s hands settled on the sides of your hips, warm and sure, pulling you closer until your bodies met. You went easily, your own hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your palms.
“You’re finally here.” he mumbled, face lowering closer to yours. Your eyes dropped to his lips, lashes fluttering as you waited for the kiss. But his mouth moved to your ear instead, breath warm against your skin. “Do you have any idea how many nights I spent here, thinking about you?”
“A lot?” your voice came out quiet and weak, your breath already heavier.
“More than I could count, if I’m being honest.” one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers gentle as he tilted your face upward. “Especially after that damn call.”
“I really liked that call.” you admitted, looking up at his dark eyes through your lashes.
“I could tell.” his nose nudged yours, close enough that you could taste the faint mint on his breath.
“Tae…”
“Yeah, hustler?” he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting even though you both knew exactly where this was heading. He still didn’t close the distance, leaving just enough space to make your skin crawl.
Your hands moved on their own, sliding up to his shoulders first, then higher, fingers slipping into the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. You looked at his face, studying the bruise on his cheekbone already fading to a softer yellow, the cut on the bridge of his nose and the one near his brow healing nicely. He was so handsome and intense like this that you had to use every bit of willpower not to look away, because that would only give him more power than he already had.
Instead, you pressed your front against his, your breasts pushing tight against the low cut of your top, and tugged at the strands of his hair.
That was all it took.
He groaned, low and rough, the hand on your waist tightening as he finally gave in. “Kiss me.” you said, sweet and pleading, barely above a whisper.
He leaned in at once, mouth meeting yours, his tongue slipping between your lips without hesitation. The kiss was slow but deep, sensual in a way that made your head feel fuzzy and your knees a little weak from the first flick of his tongue.
You moved with him, lips parting further, sighing softly into his mouth as he groaned again at the way you kept tugging his hair. The sound vibrated against your tongue, warm and delicious, and for a moment everything else, the sparse room, the rules, the world outside, disappeared completely.
Your hands stayed in his hair, fingers curling tighter as you pressed your front against him, breasts pushing softly into his chest. The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made heat pool. You couldn’t help the small sound that escaped you, nor the way your hips rolled forward, seeking him. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through his pants, and the proof that he was just as affected made your thighs press together instinctively.
Taehyung moaned into your mouth, the sound turning into a low groan as his lips left yours to trail along your jaw, then lower, right below your ear. He kissed your neck with wet, open-mouthed presses, the occasional scrape of teeth and slow drag of his tongue sending shivers down your spine. Nothing that would leave a mark, but enough to make your skin feel too hot and your breath come shorter. You rubbed your thighs together again, the ache between them growing sharper with every touch.
“I never wanted anyone as much as I want you.” he said against your skin, voice rough and honest.
“It’s just the abstinence from being in the military.” you joked, even as the same desperate feeling settled deep in your chest.
“I’ll prove it to you.” his hand at the back of your neck tugged gently at your hair, tilting your head to give him more room. His mouth moved lower. “Years from now, when we’re living together in the big city, I’ll still want you just as much.”
“Don’t promise what you can’t keep.” you challenged, voice barely steady.
His hand slid from your waist to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that pulled a soft gasp from you. “I never do, hustler.”
Taehyung pulled back just enough for you to see his face again, eyes dark and serious. Your brain wanted to argue that he wasn’t thinking straight, that this was all heat and fantasy, but you let yourself sink into it anyway; the shared daydream that he could save you from this town and the future already written for you.
You rose onto your toes, pressing your mouth to his again, a tiny nod accompanying the kiss that you hoped he felt. You kept kissing him then, slow and deep, your hands roaming over his shoulders and down his back, squeezing the firm muscle there. His own hands weren’t shy either, sliding over your waist, your hips, gripping just tight enough to make you press closer. Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling against each other, but neither wanted to stop.
“You made a promise over the phone, too.” you moaned against his mouth. “How about you keep that one first?”
Taehyung pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and a little dazed, adorably confused. You were squeezing around nothing, already so aroused it ached, but you waited, watching the moment it clicked.
“I got something to prove to you, don’t I?” he grinned, wide and hungry, and you nodded.
Taehyung’s hands stayed on your hips as he gently walked you backward toward his bed. You caught the hint right away, ducking your head so you wouldn’t hit it on the top bunk, and lowered yourself onto the thin mattress. The single pillow was lumpy under your head and the bed creaked under your weight, the frame digging slightly into your back, but you didn’t care. Not when he was climbing over you, his body too big for the small bed, knees pushing your legs apart as he settled between them.
The ridiculous fit of both of you trying to share the narrow space made you giggle, but he covered your mouth with his hand, warm and firm.
“Remember to be quiet, baby.” he whispered.
You nodded under his palm, then teased against it: “As I remember, you know just how to keep my mouth busy if I’m not.”
Tae groaned, low and rough, and parted your legs wider so he could slot his hips between them. You had a bratty reply ready on the tip of your tongue, but then he rolled his hips forward, pressing his clothed cock right against your pussy. The friction hit your clit even through the layers of fabric and your back arched sharply, pushing your breasts up as you rubbed against him in return.
“God, I love how desperate you get.” he said, staring right at your face. “Never seen anyone so beautiful like this.”
“Tae… No time.” you complained, voice already breathy. “You can praise me all you want later, when we're living together in the big city.
Taehyung smiled at the mention of the future he had joked about, eyes too fond for what you were about to do. His long fingers found the thin strings of your top, giving them small, teasing tugs until the bow loosened and the fabric slipped down.
“This okay?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, reaching down to pull the top the rest of the way, letting your breasts spill free. Taehyung’s hips stuttered against you as he stared, like he was fighting not to drool.
“You’ve been walking around me in this dress all morning without a bra?” his voice was rough, almost disbelieving.
You shrugged, trying to look innocent even as heat flooded your face. “You could have found out earlier. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
“Fuck…”
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the short strands there as you pulled him closer. His eyes stayed on you the whole time, dark and focused, letting you guide him exactly where you wanted.
You held one breast up with a small hand, dragging your nipple softly against his bottom lip, then pulling it down just enough to tease. His eyes rolled back for a second, a low sound rumbling in his chest. You tapped the side of his cheek gently, surprised by how pliant he was right now, giving you this small bit of control.
He obeyed, parting his mouth and letting his tongue slip out, warm and wet. One of his eyebrows twitched up, and that was when you realized he wasn’t really giving you the control at all. He was hustling you, seeing how far you would take it.
And fuck, that was hot.
Your back bowed again as you dragged your nipple across the flat of his tongue, watching it grow hard and slick with every slow pass. The sensation sent sparks straight between your legs until you couldn’t take it anymore. You laid back against the thin mattress, breath shaky.
Taehyung followed your breasts with his mouth, lips wrapping around your nipple as he sucked, slow and hard. His tongue swirled, teeth grazing just enough to make you bite your own lip hard to keep from moaning too loud. His right hand started moving down between your bodies, fingers finding the damp fabric of your underwear and pressing down with two fingers, firm and sure, right where you needed it.
“You’re gonna make such a mess on my sheets, aren’t you?” he mused, dragging the digits up and down your covered folds. “Everyone is gonna be able to smell you when they come back.”
Taehyung nosed between your breasts, breathing you in as you held them together for him, the soft weight of them pressing against his cheeks. Tae’s tongue dragged slow and wet over one nipple, then the other, while his hand worked between your legs.
He finally pushed your underwear to the side with two fingers, coating them in your slick, and you felt the cool air hit your exposed skin for just a second before his thumb found your clit, rubbing quick, firm circles that made your hips jerk.
You squirmed under him, gasping, and he covered your mouth with his free hand, palm big and warm.
“Shhh…” he mumbled against your skin, the smile in his voice downright filthy. “Don’t make me gag you around my fingers.”
“Please, do.” you chuckled, delirious, the words muffled.
He pressed the tips of two fingers to your entrance, then pushed them in to the second knuckle.
“I think you were right.” he whispered, voice rough as he kissed the side of your breast. “It’s gonna be a tight fit when I get my cock in you.”
The sound of heavy boots on the concrete outside made you both freeze. Your eyes went wide, heart hammering with sudden worry, but Taehyung’s stayed dark and heavy-lidded, completely blown out. The footsteps passed without stopping, fading down the hallway, but the reminder that people were walking just outside the door only made everything feel sharper.
Like a teasing menace, he pushed his fingers all the way in. It didn’t hurt, but the stretch made you clench around him, breath catching. He added his thumb, rolling it in slow circles against your clit to help you relax, the pressure steady and perfect.
The footsteps were still out there, soldiers probably finished with lunch, moving up and down the hall, but with the way he was fingering you deep, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
“It’s so tight…” Taehyung praised, voice low as he dragged his fingers along your walls. His heavy cock pressed hot and hard against the inside of your thigh, twitching every time you squeezed around him.
You desperately wanted to moan, the sound building in your throat, but you knew how much trouble you’d both be in if anyone heard. Instead, you grabbed the hand covering your mouth, holding his wrist as you opened your lips for him. He watched, a little drunk on it, as you wrapped your mouth around his fingers and pushed them deeper, sucking gently.
“Good girl.” he murmured, the words rough. “That’s it. Keep that pretty little mouth full and quiet.”
He kept pressing his fingers inside you, curling and stroking, his thumb working your clit in quick, expert circles. You bobbed your head slowly, licking and making a soft, wet mess around his fingers, the quiet slurping sounds barely loud enough for the two of you to hear.
Then he pressed upward, curling his fingers just right, and a sharp, unfamiliar pleasure shot through you.
“You look a little surprised there, hustler. I told you I would find it.” he looked cocky as hell, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek.
You drooled around his fingers, nodding desperately as his mouth moved to your ear. “Better keep those fingers in there,” he warned, voice low and filthy, “because I’m about to make you cum nice and hard. Got it?”
You nodded again, pushing his fingers even deeper down your throat. You swallowed around them and Taehyung moaned, low and raspy, right against your ear.
His fingers kept hitting that spot inside you, faster now, his thumb working quick circles over your clit at the same time. You could barely focus on sucking his fingers anymore, your eyes fluttering as desperate little moans and whimpers slipped out around them.
Taehyung didn’t stop, whispering filthy things against your ear, low and rough.
“That’s it, baby… feel how tight you are around my fingers? You’re going to cum so hard for me.”
You didn’t remember ever feeling this good from someone else’s hands, not even from your favorite toy on your loneliest nights.
Then he flicked his wrist just right and everything broke.
Your orgasm crashed through you, sudden and overwhelming, starting low in your belly and spreading hot and electric through your whole body. Your pussy clenched hard around his fingers, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves that made your thighs shake and your back arch sharply off the thin mattress. A broken moan tried to escape your throat, but his hand over your mouth caught most of it, turning it into a muffled, desperate sound.
Your toes curled, your fingers dug into his shoulders, and for a few long seconds the whole world narrowed down to the relentless pleasure rolling through you in heavy, shuddering waves. Even your vision blurred at the edges as the aftershocks kept coming, smaller but just as intense, leaving your legs trembling and your chest heaving.
He kept pumping his fingers through it, slow and steady, drawing out every last bit until your body finally went boneless beneath him, heavy and warm and completely spent.
“You look like a fucking mess right now.” he mumbled, voice thick with satisfaction. It felt like the highest praise. “How am I going to let you walk out there looking like this?”
You frowned, a tiny pout forming on your lips. “We’re going now? I didn’t even get the chance to suck you off.”
He looked a little embarrassed, cheeks flushed, but the grin that followed was anything but shy:
“I came in my pants as soon as you brought your tits to my mouth.”
“Really?” your eyes sparkled, delighted and still a little light-headed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” he leaned in to kiss your lips, soft and lingering. “But I do need to change my pants before we go.”
“Shit, I have to stay with a damp underwear for the rest of the day?!”
-
-
Given that you and Taehyung missed the actual lunch of today’s program, and then some, you were accepting of the idea that you would have to go hungry for a few more hours before you had the opportunity to eat something again.
But then, as soon as you were sneaking out of the dorms and out into the open again –with your hair up in a ponytail, makeup wiped off after it was ruined, and dress a little more crinkled than when you arrived– Taehyung reminded you that his hyungs were working on the hot dog booth.
And you fed those boys so many times that no one denied you a chunky hot dog, even if they were technically not allowed to start cooking them yet.
“This is really good, my god!” you gushed through a mouthful, chewing on the best bite of hot dog you’ve ever had in your life. “Did you make this sauce yourself?”
You asked Minseok, who was looking the proudest at your praise as he sat on the other side of the picnic table across from you and next to Ji-hoon. The white tent above you made it so the summer sun wasn’t coming down on you too hard, but the cool winds from this morning were long gone.
“Created it in the kitchen here at the base myself,” Miseok nodded, chest puffed. “I worked as a chef during my first months of enlisting.”
“Wow, I’m really impressed.” you nodded, finally swallowing. “Can I buy the recipe to serve at the bar?”
“You can have it for free.” he told you with a smile and a wink. “I’ll text you later.”
“What are you texting my girl for?” Taehyung only picked up on the end of the conversation, making his way back to the table with two soda cans he stole from the kitchen. Or maybe they had vending machines now, you weren’t sure.
Taehyung –now in black pants instead of the dark green ones he would have to deal with later– passed a leg around the long wooden bench to sit next to you, practically encasing your side with his long legs, placing the cans on the table top.
“I’m stealing her from you.” Minseok replied in a deadpan, and Ji-hoon scoffed.
“You had two years to get her, and now that I’m here you think you got a chance, huh?” Taehyung grinned, certain of his hold on your heart already.
And he wasn’t wrong. Especially not when you watched those long fingers that had just been inside you popping the can open with just one hand.
You blinked hard, offering the hot dog to your man. “Try this.”
“That’s his secret sauce, right?” Taehyung asked as he studied the bun and the herbs-green sauce drizzled on top. “You should try it with fries.”
The groan that came out of your mouth as you imagined trying this with french fries was very different from the ones you were letting out thirty minutes ago. Taehyung’s mouth opened so wide to take a bite of the food that you believed for a moment that he was about to take half of it at once.
Ji-hoon looked at his watch, asking: “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the–”
“Taehyungie?”
You didn’t really recognize the voice calling your new-boyfriend, but he clearly did, perking up with surprise as he tried to swallow the giant bite and you worried he might choke.
“Hyung!” Taehyung was getting up right away, swallowing with a tiny cough and running to the man who called him. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
You turned around in your seat, watching as Tae bear hugged the slightly taller man, who was also wearing full military gear, but not the SDT kind. He was hiding from the sun behind dark sunglasses and a cap, but you recognized him soon enough.
“I wanted to surprise you.” Kim Namjoon smiled big and friendly, patting Taehyung’s chest and biceps. “Damn, you’re big.”
“Bigger than you!” Taehyung agreed excitedly. “And Jungkookie too, we’re in a competition.”
“I see that.” Namjoon smiled fondly, his eyes finding your table for a strange second before focusing on his brother again. “How have you been, Tae?”
“Really good, hyung.” Tae followed the look, as if remembering you were still there, and pulled the other man closer. “Oh, I want to introduce you to someone.”
Oh, god! Not when I have sauce all over my face!
You swallowed the small bite you were chewing and cleaned your mouth with a napkin, getting up as the men approached and wiped your hands as you smoothed down your dress. Not that the action made much of any difference.
“This is Yn.” Taehyung started introductions as soon as you turned around and moved off the bench.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Namjoon-ssi.” you bowed politely, hands on your chest so you wouldn’t flash the man when you bent slightly to show your respects.
“Likewise. I heard a lot about you.” the older man just nodded with his head, but his smile was friendly enough at first glance. Then he looked at Taehyung and said: “Jiminie told me you met someone.”
“I told him not to–” Tae groaned, his hand finding the small of your back as if it was already second nature. “I wanted to be the one to tell everyone.”
“Then text us every once in a while, or at least look at the group chat when you’re having time off.” Namjoon nagged him like an older brother, fond and warm.
You quietly slipped from under Taehyung’s arm so you could go back to your hot dog, taking a few more bites and sipping the cold soda. The carbonation fizzed against your tongue, a welcome distraction as you listened to them talk.
You had always known Namjoon and Taehyung were close, they had been in the same group for years, but sometimes those kinds of friendships looked better on camera than they felt in real life. Hearing them now, the easy way they teased and checked in on each other, made it clear this one was real. It made you happy in a quiet, warm way to know Taehyung surrounded himself with good people in every part of his life.
You turned your head whenever Taehyung mentioned you or the bar, smiling as he told Namjoon he had to come by if he stayed longer than a few hours for the event.
You had always thought you were good at reading people, your dad had drilled that into you from a young age, that the world could be unkind even to good people, so you couldn’t help noticing the small off vibe from Namjoon. It wasn’t toward Taehyung, and not even toward Minseok and Ji-hoon, but toward you.
For Taehyung’s sake, you shrugged it off, ignoring the uneasy twist in your stomach.
“Tae, you’re gonna be late for the game.” Ji-hoon called after checking his watch.
Taehyung looked panicked, eyes widening like he had completely forgotten.
“Shit, we have to go.” he turned to Namjoon, grabbing his arm. “Hyung, you have to watch me kick these rookies’ asses.”
“You’re also a rookie?” Namjoon laughed, warm and fond.
“He’s a special warrior now.” you said, proud as you stood up again, brushing crumbs from your dress.
“Oh?” Namjoon looked from you to Taehyung, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “That you don’t mention?”
“It just happened this week.” Taehyung replied, a little abashed, clearly missing the tiny jab you had caught.
You all started walking toward the drills area, the group of five moving at an easy pace. Minseok cleared the trash from the table and grabbed Taehyung’s untouched can of soda for himself, grinning like he had won something. Taehyung and Namjoon fell into step ahead of everyone else, their voices carrying back to you as they caught up on things only they would understand.
You didn’t mind. It made you happy, in a quiet way, that someone from Taehyung’s old life had shown up to support him today.
When you reached the competition area, Taehyung pulled you aside for a quick moment, his hand warm on your lower back. He leaned in and kissed you, soft and quick, but enough to make your stomach flip.
“Keep your eyes on me.” he murmured against your lips.
“They are only for you anyways.” you told him, knowing it sounded cheesy but also knowing he would like it.
Taehyung grinned, then parted from you to go get ready with the other competing boys. When you looked back, Minseok and Ji-hoon had already left to help organize the competition, and you felt a little awkward now that it was just you and Namjoon, but you decided it was a good opportunity to get to know him better.
“Should we go find a place to watch?” you invited, trying to sound friendly.
“Lead the way.” he said simply.
You looked toward the shaded bleachers where loved ones were gathering and started walking there, knowing Namjoon would follow. You climbed up to the second row, apologizing quietly to the people already sitting there, and found an empty spot. Namjoon settled beside you, the shade already feeling much better than the direct sun.
You sat there in the shaded bleachers, watching Taehyung even from this distance, feeling both excited and nervous for him. You knew he would push himself harder today because you and Namjoon were watching.
The silence between you and Namjoon felt a little too heavy while the competition still hadn’t started, so you turned to him, trying to make conversation.
“Did you really hear about me?” you asked, as friendly as you could sound.
“I did.” Namjoon kept looking ahead, not at you. “Which is why I came here today.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you…” you smiled, but it dropped when he sighed and took off his sunglasses. “Right?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, you seem like a really nice girl and all.” Namjoon turned toward you, and you felt your guard come up immediately. “But don’t you think this is all a bit pointless?”
“Pointless,” you repeated, unsure if he was talking about the competition, your small talk, or something else entirely.
“Listen, I’m going to be honest with you. You look smart.” Namjoon’s tone reminded you of a PR person, or even a politician. “He’s gonna leave in a few months.”
“I’m aware.” your voice came out a little flat.
“And as soon as he leaves, we have a job to do.” he continued, serious. “Tae can’t be wasting time moping around from a breakup.”
“So you’re already assuming we’re going to break up once his enlistment ends?” you saw the point he was making, you had run through all those bullet points in your own head too, but you weren’t about to agree with this stranger who was judging you after knowing you for ten minutes.
“Don’t you?” he asked, but it sounded rhetorical. “I’m not trying to be harsh here–”
“You’re just trying to find a way to tell me to stay away from your friend without sounding like an asshole.” you said, your cadence steady.
“Do you think you could keep up with his lifestyle?” Namjoon tried another route. “Or that he’s still going to be interested in you when he has more options?”
His words hurt, because he was saying with full letters that the only reason Taehyung was interested in you was because you were the better choice in this small town, that you were available and right there. It twisted an insecurity you didn’t know you should have, but thinking about Taehyung around models and idols and everything else made the hot dog feel heavier in your stomach than it had five minutes ago.
“Wow, I take it back. You really don’t mind sounding like an asshole.” you said with a short laugh.
“Not if it means I’m protecting my own.” he stayed serious. “Because I know Tae better than you do, and he’s probably already picturing a future with an apartment and kids with you, but that’s not realistic.”
“He can’t have a private life outside of the group?” at this point you weren’t even thinking about yourself or your future with Tae, but protective of Taehyung himself, even if his future wasn’t meant to be with you.
“Absolutely he can, just not–”
“With me.”
“…right now.” Namjoon continued quietly. “He gets into things too intensely, too fast. And then when they don’t work out the way he envisioned them, he crashes hard. Trust me on this, I was there for all of his breakups.”
You sat with the irony that you had been thinking a similar thing, that Taehyung would be the one to break your heart, that you were growing too attached too fast. But you had decided to take a chance because it was Tae and you had never felt this way about anyone else.
And now Namjoon was presenting you with the same facts, but with his best friend’s interest in mind.
Had you been so naive to believe this could actually work in the long run? That you would somehow escape the shackle at your ankle called Kai, that he would ever let you leave just because you found true love?
Yeah. You and Tae were fated to not work out in the end, but not for any of the reasons Namjoon was hinting at. So maybe he was right after all, and you should break things off before you could keep hurting Tae. Even if it meant your own heart would start breaking today.
You sat there in the shaded bleachers, the noise of the competition barely registering. Namjoon’s words kept turning over in your head.
You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right, but he was, and he didn’t even know the full story. If he only worried about Tae being sad after a breakup, he would lose his mind if he found out the type of people you were tangled up with; the debts, the threats, the way Kai had made you collateral in a game you never asked to play.
It made you feel selfish and irresponsible for letting Taehyung get this close to someone like you. He was famous, even if it didn’t feel like it in this small pocket of the world. If word got out about the two of you, about your mess, you would ruin his career.
And you would never forgive yourself for doing that to him.
Your throat tightened, and you nodded to yourself, small and decisive, then stood up from the bleacher seat, brushing your hands down your dress as if that could steady you.
“Thank you, Yn.” Namjoon said quietly.
“I’m not doing this for you.” your voice came out small and choked, but you knew the tears wouldn’t come until you were alone.
You walked off the bleachers, legs moving on autopilot, thanking every higher power that Taehyung was still busy with the competition. You looked back at him one last time, heart breaking a million times over for what you had already done and what you were doing right now.
He was laughing with the other boys, face bright and focused, completely unaware of the storm happening around him. Even now, seeing him like that made your chest flutter in the worst way, happy and aching all at once.
Namjoon would probably tell him something kinder, make you sound like the bad guy trying to take advantage. It would hurt, but in the list of things that could happen, that was the lesser evil. Let him hate you. Let him think you didn’t deserve him. Thinking of you fondly would only make it worse for him in the end.
You turned around to leave, taking a few steps until you ran straight into Ji-hoon.
“Where are you going?” he asked, but his smile dropped as soon as he saw your face. “Hey, what’s going on–”
“Please let me go.” you said, hating how your voice wavered.
“Yn, what–” he tried again, reaching for your arm, but you sidestepped him.
You were trying to leave with whatever dignity you had left, trying not to cause a scene, but people near the entrance were already looking. You felt small and broken under their stares, the kind of attention that made your skin crawl.
Your legs kept moving, a straight line toward the gates that suddenly felt as big and far away as they had when you were a kid.
“Hustler!”
No no no no no. Keep walking. Don’t turn around.
You would crumble if you looked at him.
“Wait–” Taehyung’s hand caught your arm just as you reached the gates, warm and firm, stopping you in your tracks.
Taehyung stepped in front of you, blocking the path to the gates and you pushed a smile onto your lips, but it felt thin and wrong, nowhere near your eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be kicking the rookies’ asses right now?” your voice came out as weak as you felt.
“Ji-hoon hyung said you were leaving.” he looked serious, brows drawn together, the easy smile from the competition already gone.
“Yeah, sorry, something came up–” you tried to step around him, but he shifted with you, gentle but firm.
“Okay, let’s go.” he was already turning, ready to follow without asking twice.
“What?” you shook your head, guilt twisting sharp in your chest as he moved to save you again. This time he couldn’t. Not from this. “No, you can’t.”
“You’re about to cry, so something serious is happening.” he had already decided, eyes searching your face. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, you don’t get it.” your breath was getting harder to pull in, the words scraping up your throat. “You can’t come with me, because… You’re the reason I’m leaving.”
Taehyung stopped then, like you had slapped him across the face. The look he gave you hit harder than anything else had since your dad died, raw confusion and hurt all at once, his shoulders dropping, mouth slightly parted like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.
You knew there was no coming back from what you were about to say, but you said it anyway.
“Listen, Tae… I’m very sorry, okay?” at least that part was true. “Being with you was nice, but it was only a fantasy of what could have been if I wasn’t me and you weren’t you.”
“Where is this coming from?” his hand dropped from your arm, and the loss of his touch made your chest feel like it was already bleeding. “Because you don’t even sound like yourself right now.”
“Miss, are you leaving?” the guard by the entrance called out, voice flat and official. “You can’t just stand in front of the gates like this.”
“Yes.” you answered.
At the same time Taehyung said: “No.”
“Tae–”
“Talk to me, hustler.” his voice cracked on the nickname, pleading now. “Tell me the truth, not whatever this is.”
“You should forget about me.” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “It’ll be easier for both of us in the end.”
The gates were already opening, the guard stepping forward with a firm look that said this wasn’t the place for a scene. He walked you out without another word, his hand hovering near your elbow like he was ready to guide you if you didn’t move. Taehyung tried to follow, but the guard stopped him with a single raised hand and a clipped order.
You felt Taehyung’s stare burning into your back the whole way, heavy and confused, like he was still waiting for you to turn around and explain.
You kept walking, one step after the other, even though every part of you wanted to run back to him when this was the worst thing you had ever had to do in your life.
You wondered if it was possible to love someone you had only just met, because it felt like it was. The thought of turning around and begging him to run away with you kept flashing through your mind, but that wouldn’t fix any of the problems waiting for you.
It would only make them worse for him.
So you kept walking, all the way to the bar two blocks away, the familiar neon sign blurring a little as you got closer. You hoped Mina would be there for a hug, or that you could hide in the bathroom until you could breathe again.
Instead, you saw the police cars parked out front, lights on and unmistakable.
Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.
Word Count: 15.9k
part 1&2 ❤️🔥
Your day off has barely begun when Hoseok texted.
H 🖤Studio B. Come now.
No explanation. No emoji. Just urgency.
It isn’t a panic kind of message, no one calls the best dancer on the team in for an emergency this way. Still, you hadn’t asked questions. You’d just tied up your shoes, tossed on your jacket, and headed straight there. Because when Hoseok calls, you show up.
It’s always been like that. When you step into the studio, you immediately feel it—something’s off.
Hoseok’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, back straight but face tight. His mouth is set, jaw ticking. Two choreographers—both from the in-house team—are standing against the far wall, arms crossed like they’ve just been told something they didn’t want to hear.
The tension in the room hits you like heat.
You walk in slowly, gaze flicking between them, and then to Hoseok. “Everything okay?”
He looks up at you, his expression shifting as soon as he sees your face. That subtle lock in his shoulders eases. His eyes soften like a reflex.
“You’re good,” he says, glancing at the choreographers. “Can you give us the room?”
They don’t argue. They just exchange one final look—tight-lipped, unreadable—and file out without a word.
The door shuts.
The silence stays.
You tilt your head. “Alright, what’s going on?”
Hoseok lets out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Sorry. It’s nothing major. Just…creative tension.”
You arch a brow. “Over what?”
He grins now, all teeth. It’s cocky. Excited. Mischievous.
“I’m dropping a new song.”
You smile, because of course he is. “Finally.”
“It’s called Killin’ It Girl. Comes out June 13th, in Seoul.” He stands and stretches, already loosening up, shaking off the leftover frustration. “And I want you to feature in the MV.”
You blink once. Not surprised. Not caught off guard. Just…ready.
“Obviously,” you say.
That grin of his spreads wider. “We’re filming it while we’re in Thailand. Everything’s already in motion.”
You nod, jaw tilting. “That’s why you brought the in-house team in.”
“They were suggesting alternatives. Names. I already told them it was non-negotiable.”
You bite back a satisfied smile. “You love being dramatic.”
“I love being right,” he shoots back. “No one moves like you. No one matches me like you do. No one else will be where I need them to be in time.”
He walks up to you then—close, familiar—and wraps his arms around your waist without asking. His skin is warm under his hoodie, and he smells like cedar and studio air.
You lean into him easily, your voice low. “So what’s my part?”
“You’ve got your own segment,” he says against your temple. “Group dancers behind us for the chorus, but the tension lives between me and you.”
You grin. “Naturally.”
He pulls back, eyes lit up now, the way they always are when he’s about to make something big.
“You wanna learn the choreo?”
You already have your hair tied back and your shoes on.
“Press play, Hobi.”
The music pulses through the studio, thick with bass, every beat dripping with confidence. Hoseok moves like a wave crashing—controlled, dangerous, magnetic—and you mirror him like a shadow with fire in its chest.
You barely speak. You don’t need to. Every lift of your hip, every twist of your wrist, every lean toward him speaks the language you’ve both been fluent in since day one. By the end of the first pass, both of you are breathing hard, sweat already glistening along your hairline.
He looks at you. Proud. Certain. Lit up.
And you know, deep in your core—this is the moment people will remember. The track fades into silence, both of you breathless, a light sheen of sweat warming your skin. Hoseok looks over at you with that spark in his eye, chest rising and falling with satisfaction.
He doesn't have to say it.
You nailed it, even with the intense difficulty of this piece.
Then the studio door creaks open again. The two in-house choreographers re-enter with unreadable expressions, arms still crossed. They watch you and Hoseok like they’re trying to gauge the threat level.
“Run it again,” one of them says curtly.
No hello. No feedback. Just tone. You exchange a quick glance with Hoseok, who shrugs like let’s give them a show, then walks over to restart the track.
You move through it again—each step more intentional, more laced with heat. There’s a purpose behind every slow grind, every brush of skin, every pause that feels like a held breath. The choreography is sensual, yes, but it’s also precise. Technical. Artful.
When it ends, silence.
The choreographers shift, disapproval written all over their faces.
“That’s not going to fly,” one says flatly. “It’s too suggestive. You’ve already got the other song featuring her on the setlist. The fans are going to think you’re pushing it.”
Your jaw tenses. You open your mouth even when you really shouldn’t.
“We already do that routine every night and it’s ten times more—” You catch yourself. Swallow it. “Sorry. I just think this is… different. It’s storytelling.”
You feel Hoseok step in closer, his hand finding the small of your back.
Supportive. Possessive. Calm, for now.
“I choreographed this,” he says, tone even but with a hard edge. “My song. My vision.”
The first choreographer lifts his chin. “You know management won’t go for this.”
Hoseok doesn’t blink. “They don’t have to go for it. I already got it cleared for the video.”
The second one crosses his arms tighter. “They haven’t seen it.”
“That’s why we’re filming it,” Hoseok snaps, voice cracking through the room. “And if you think they won’t like it, maybe I’ll just leak a photo of us kissing. That’ll get them warmed up real fast.”
You freeze. Then look at him. He’s staring the choreographer down, dead serious. You know he wouldn’t do that without talking to you first. Without talking to his members. Without asking. But you also know he’s not bluffing.
The silence in the room is now razor sharp.
You reach for your phone.
“Want another angle?” you say lightly, flipping it around to show a quiet, cozy picture—his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers in his hair.
You smile. “This one’s cute.”
That’s when the first choreographer finally steps back. Blinks. Hesitates.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Run it your way.”
Still looks wary. Still clearly hates it.
Then he tries again. “But I’m just saying…the fans—”
“You’re boring,” Hoseok cuts in sharply. “You want clean lines, no edge, no bite. And that’s fine for you. But I’m not here to please people who want safe. I’m here to push things. To make people feel something. And if they’re uncomfortable, good. Let them sit with that.”
The choreographers go quiet. Hoseok walks to the door, opens it wide.
“Take a break,” he says coolly. “I need the room.”
They walk out, finally, stiff and silent. As the door closes, Hoseok lets out a slow breath, turning back to you. You look at him, still holding your phone, your heart still pounding.
Energy's up. Everyone’s been buzzing since early morning, and no one knows why Hoseok called a full group meeting before rehearsal. All ten backup dancers are present, stretching on the glossy studio floor under the hard white lights, murmuring between sips of electrolyte packets and half-warm water bottles.
You’re sitting cross-legged near the mirrors beside Yunjin, who bumps your shoulder playfully and whispers, “You know what this is about, don’t you?”
You just shrug, biting your lip. But the answer is yes. Of course you do.
You’d seen it in Hoseok’s eyes yesterday, after your private rehearsal. Heard it in the way he said, I’ll tell them soon, when you asked how this was all going to work.
Now it’s time.
Hoseok walks in, dressed in all black, sleeves rolled, towel slung around his neck. He doesn’t say much at first. Just sets his phone down, glances at his choreographer and then around the room like he’s reading every face.
“I’ve got a new project,” he says. “A music video. For Killin’ It Girl. We’re filming it while we’re in Thailand.”
That earns a ripple of excitement. Heads turn. You can see people already calculating—who’s in? Who’s getting featured?
“I want this group to dance in it,” Hoseok continues, gesturing at the full team. “We’ll start learning the choreography today, and I’ll decide who makes the final cut.”
A few quiet gasps. Someone mutters, “Oh shit.”
The group spends hours learning the choreography before Hoseok reveals the last piece of the puzzle. When he does his tone shifts slightly. A little more sure. A little more intimate.
“There’s also a featured section. Just me and one dancer.” He pauses, his gaze sliding right to you. “I’ve already picked her.”
Your heart flips, even though you knew this was coming.
“I thought about it a lot,” he says. “But I’m already so comfortable with her. Our chemistry’s right. It just makes sense.”
The room shifts.
And then—a scoff.
Sharp. Short. Too loud not to be heard.
Hoseok’s eyes snap up. They sweep the room until they land and you see her entire body still.
“Come up front,” he says, his voice low.
The girl stands slowly. You don’t miss the way her shoulders hunch, her face a mask of guilt and nerves. She keeps her head low as she walks to the front of the room.
Hoseok crosses his arms.
“Do you think you can do better?”
She doesn’t answer.
He tilts his head. “If you do, prove it.”
“No, I—”
“You wanted to speak,” he cuts in, voice sharper now. “So dance.”
She hesitates, looking ready to cry.
Hoseok calls out, “Jihoon, run it with her, please.”
The male dancer glances around, startled, but nods and steps forward without complaint.
The track starts and you watch from the mirror-line, silent. Yunjin next to you doesn’t say a word, but you feel her shifting—tense, alert. Everyone is.
The girl dances. You’ll give her credit—she doesn’t hold back. She hits the moves hard, flips her hair with conviction, tries to wear confidence like a second skin. But Hoseok doesn’t give her a break. He shouts corrections through the entire piece.
“Lower your center. You’re late. No connection. No story.”
His voice echoes between the beats. He never looks away.
When it ends, Jihoon steps back respectfully.
Hoseok nods to him. “Thanks, man.”
Then turns to her.
“You can leave.”
Her lips part, stunned, but she doesn’t argue. She turns and walks out, steps shaky, head still down.
The room is silent. No one moves.
Hoseok turns back to the group. “This choreography isn’t just steps. It’s heat. It’s instinct. If it’s not real—if you don’t believe it—don’t expect anyone else to.”
His eyes flick to you for a split second, just long enough to remind you: you do believe it.
Yunjin lets out the breath she was holding and leans in close enough for only you to hear.
The lights, the heat, the pulse of the bass thumping through your chest. It is the kind of show that leaves you soaked in sweat, high on adrenaline, and aching in muscles you forgot exist. You’d barely have time to process it before Hoseok’s hand brushes yours backstage, his thumb slipping under the hem of your hoodie in a blink-and-you’d-miss-it touch.
H 🖤
Come to my room.
You slip into his hotel room as quietly as you can, heart already thudding louder than your footsteps. He’s already there, door barely closed before he’s crowding you, fingers pulling at your zipper, peeling your hoodie from your shoulders like he’s been thinking about it all night.
“I didn’t shower at the venue,” he murmurs against your jaw, already working at the waistband of your sweats. “Come in with me.”
You nod, already breathless. “Okay.”
He doesn’t wait for you to undress and helps you instead, hands tugging fabric over your hips, sliding your bra straps off your shoulders, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.
The bathroom is already steamed up by the time you step inside, skin flushed and damp from more than just the humidity. The shower light casts everything in a soft, golden haze.
You step under the spray together, bodies slick, skin against skin.
His mouth finds yours instantly, eager and wet, tongue slipping past your lips as his hands roam—slow, sure, like he has all the time in the world to touch you everywhere you want. The water rushes over your backs, heat soaking into every muscle.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” he says into your mouth. “You killed it.”
You smirk, one hand sliding down his chest. “You watched me dance the same setlist we’ve been doing all tour.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, nosing down your neck, “and every time, I want you more.”
His hand slips between your thighs, slick from the water but purposeful, fingers parting you until you're gasping, forehead pressed to his shoulder.
You can feel the hunger radiating off him. He’s not rushing, he never does, but he’s hungry. You match it, your palm curling around him, stroking him slowly as he works you open with his fingers, your moans echoing in the tile and steam.
“Turn around,” he rasps.
You obey, hands braced against the wall. You hear the shift of his breath just before he slides into you with one slow, perfect thrust that has you arching back into him with a cry.
He fucks you steady, hips smacking yours as water beats down your spine. His fingers grip your hips tight, holding you in place while his pace deepens, every breath he takes a little rougher than the last.
“You feel so good,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “Always.”
Your name falls from his lips when you tighten around him, one hand sliding between your legs to rub slow, fast, perfectly in sync with each thrust until you come hard, legs shaking.
He follows with a low moan, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around you.
When it’s over, you stay under the water for a moment. Breathing, grounding, laughing softly as he kisses your shoulder again and again.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.
You twist to face him. “You’ve got good taste.”
He grins, pulls you in for a softer kiss now. One that says I missed you and you’re mine all at once.
“Come to bed,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m not done with you yet.”
The lights in the bedroom are low.
Dim yellow glows from a single bedside lamp as you crawl under the covers, skin still warm from the shower, hair damp at the nape of your neck. Hoseok follows close behind, towel draped around his shoulders, the waistband of his sweats riding low on his hips.
Neither of you speaks right away.
It’s not quiet because there’s nothing to say—it’s quiet because everything is being said in the way his eyes linger on you, in the way your fingers reach for him the second he’s within arm’s reach.
He climbs into bed, pulls the covers over both of you, then lies on his side facing you, propped on one elbow. His hand finds your waist under the sheets, palm sliding over the curve of your hip slowly, reverently, like he’s checking to make sure you’re real.
“You good?” he murmurs, voice hoarse from performing, from moaning your name in the shower, from everything.
You nod, smiling softly. “Mm. Just tired.”
He leans in, kisses your shoulder. “Me too.”
But neither of you stops touching.
His hand drifts up your ribs, thumb brushing the side of your breast. Your fingers find his stomach, nails scratching lightly across the defined lines there. You both know what you’re doing, but it’s not fast. Not needy in the same way as earlier. It’s slower now. Softer.
It’s wanting.
You lift your leg over his hip, drawing him in close, your bodies flush beneath the sheets. The kiss he gives you is lazy and deep, tongues curling slow, lips parting wider, breath catching between your teeth. He rolls you onto your back, one hand still cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, kissing you again. Down your jaw, along your throat, across the swell of your chest. “After a show…you glow.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, exhaling softly. “You’re one to talk.”
He shifts between your legs, nudging your thighs apart with gentle insistence. You’re already wet again—slowly, quietly, your body responding to the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he worships you in moments like this.
No rush.
No frenzy.
Just the sweet build of tension under candlelight breath.
He slides into you slow—deep and smooth, one perfect glide that has you gasping into his mouth. He doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, buried in your warmth, forehead pressed to yours.
You wrap your arms around his back. Let your heels press against his thighs.
He starts to move, hips rocking with long, dragging strokes that make your whole body hum. The bed creaks gently beneath you, every inch of you wrapped around him, every kiss a slow burn between moans.
“Feel so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “So perfect.”
Your nails dig into his skin. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he promises, voice shaking. “Not until you come again.”
He keeps his promise and you do. Slow and sweet and full, your body arching up into his, clenching around him as he groans your name. He follows moments later, hips stuttering, mouth open against your neck as he shudders through it.
He stays there, heavy on top of you, breath catching.
You stroke his back slowly, kissing his temple. “You always do this to me.”
He smiles sleepily into your skin. “Do what?”
“Ruin me…but gently.”
His laugh is low, warm, melted into your neck. “It’s a talent.”
He rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest, sheets twisted between your legs. You feel his heartbeat steadying against your cheek.
You press your lips to his collarbone. “Sleep?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But don’t be surprised if I wake you up early.”
The lights are brighter than they need to be, or maybe this is exactly how they are supposed to be. It’s not like you would know. This is the first time you’ve been on the set of a music video.
Everything is louder, more chaotic, more real than you imagined. Cameras swing overhead on cranes, cords crisscross the floor like vines, and a giant monitor loops back the same slow-motion take of dancers moving through fire-red lighting. A director barks into his headset from across the room. Someone trips over a prop stool. The assistant stylist touches up your hair for the fourth time and you still can’t remember what you’re supposed to do with your hands.
You’ve performed for tens of thousands. But this? This feels different. Much more permanent. You’re not just hitting counts on a stage anymore. You’re etching yourself into film. Into memory. Into his legacy.
You shift awkwardly in your chair, eyes flicking to the greenroom door where the other dancers had disappeared ten minutes ago. Their laughter echoes faintly from the other side of the wall.
You should be with them.
Instead, you're stuck in your own head, breath getting tighter by the minute, skin hot beneath your clothes. This shouldn’t be terrifying. You’ve danced this piece dozens of times. You know it. But still, your pulse won’t settle.
You don’t even realize you’ve started shaking your foot until a soft voice breaks through the fog.
“Y/N.”
You look up.
Hoseok stands just inside the doorway of his private dressing room, eyes soft but sharp. He knows that look on your face. He has seen it in mirrors and rehearsal halls, in post-show silence, in the moments just before something big.
He reaches for your hand, after his eyes sweep the area to make sure the coast is clear.
“Come here.”
You follow him without a word.
His room is quiet. Cooler. The door clicks shut behind you and the noise from set dims immediately, like someone turned down the volume on the whole world.
He turns to face you, brows furrowed. “Talk to me.”
You try to laugh it off. “It’s dumb.”
“Not if it’s bothering you.”
You pause, swallow.
“I don’t know. Performing on stage it’s almost a blur. It happens fast. But this?” You glance toward the wall, the direction of the set. “This feels…permanent. Like if I mess up here, it’ll live forever.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps forward and pulls you into his arms. You melt instantly, forehead pressed to his chest, breathing in the scent of him: a mix of stage sweat and expensive fabric softener and home.
His voice is low, steady against your temple.
“I would not ask you to do this if I didn’t think you were capable.”
You grip the fabric of his shirt.
“I know. I just—”
“You’re talented,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re powerful. And you move like you were made for this. Not just the choreo but this moment. This version of it.”
Your breath catches.
He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “Besides…this is supposed to be fun. I get to film a music video with someone I love, and genuinely love working with.”
The word floats there, love, like it’s always been part of the script. You don’t flinch and don’t have to ask if he means it. You just nod, slow and sure, the fear in your chest starting to fade.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay. I’ve got this.”
He kisses you once. Soft, warm, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.
“You’ve always had it.”
The lights are blinding. The air thick with anticipation and sweat.
You stand center stage under a hot wash of red, waiting for the cue.
All around you, the set breathes like it’s alive—cinematic lighting rigs swooping above, camera tracks lining the floor, monitors glowing with frames paused mid-motion. The director is barking angles. A production assistant is double-checking the monitor calibration. The other dancers are waiting in a separate greenroom, deliberately kept clear.
This part? This is just you and him.
You can already feel your pulse in your fingertips.
Hoseok steps into place across from you, radiating heat.
He’s shirtless under a sleek leather racing jacket, sleeves pushed to the elbows, collar popped just enough to frame his throat. A line of sweat shines down his chest, catching on the silver chain resting just beneath his collarbone. He’s wearing black gloves and confidence like a second skin.
And when his eyes meet yours—dark, intense, sure—you feel it settle low in your belly. The music cues. You move. Everything is pure instinct.
The choreography slides into place like it’s always lived in your body. Your hips circle. His follow. Your fingertips skim your own thigh just before his hand ghosts your waist. There’s a moment when he steps behind you, palms planted on your hips, grinding in slow tandem—and you swear the whole room forgets to breathe.
His breath brushes your neck. Your head falls back and you feel it. Not just the choreography. Not just the beat. Him.
The camera catches every angle. The way his eyes lock on your mouth, the grip of his hand tightening at your hip, the precise inch between your bodies that speaks louder than any lyric.
When the music cuts, you’re both panting, glowing.
The director shouts from behind the monitor. “One more, same setup! Keep the chemistry up—whatever you’re doing, it’s working!”
You step off set for a moment, heart pounding, sweat sliding down your spine. You grab a towel, try to steady your breath, but it’s still thick in your chest.
Then—
A hand finds your wrist.
You’re pulled gently behind one of the lighting rigs, hidden from view.
Hoseok’s eyes are molten.
“That was too good,” he breathes.
You laugh, breathless. “We’re literally on camera.”
“I know.” His hand slides along your waist. “And I can’t stop thinking about the way you moved on me.”
“You’re the one who choreographed that.”
“And I still wasn’t ready.”
You kiss him—slow, deep, nothing performative about it. Just the two of you, soaked in sweat and static and adrenaline.
His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splayed on your back. “This is going to break the internet.”
You smile against his mouth. “Good.”
A PA’s voice cuts in, muffled: “Back to places! Rolling in thirty!”
He rests his forehead against yours, smiling like he’s already planning how to make the next take even hotter.
“Come on,” he says, voice low, hand brushing yours as he leads you back toward the light. “Let’s give them something they’ll never forget.”
And when the cameras roll again—
You do.
The shoot wraps with cheers and scattered applause, the entire crew buzzing off the final few takes. The dancers filter out first, grabbing their bags, sweaty and glowing. The stylists follow, laughing among themselves about Hoseok’s shirtless takes and your "insane chemistry."
A few crew members linger by the monitors until Hoseok lifts a hand and says, “We’ll take it from here.”
They get the message.
Within minutes, it’s just the two of you in the darkened soundstage. The lights are dimmed, the huge monitor still glowing faintly, replaying a muted take on loop—your body curved into his, your lips parted, sweat shining on your skin as you writhe together to the beat.
You’re both standing there watching it, unmoving.
Then Hoseok shifts, voice low. “You look insane.”
You shoot him a look, heat already crawling up your neck. “You’re the one glistening like a god. That damn jacket. And your abs—”
His smirk is deadly. “You like my abs?”
“You know I like your abs.”
You reach over and press your palm flat to his stomach. His skin is hot, hard beneath your hand, the kind of body that doesn’t just happen, it’s earned. Sculpted.
“You work so hard,” you murmur, dragging your fingertips down the groove between muscles. “And I get to touch all of this?”
He hums. “You want to do more than touch.”
It isn’t a question.
He takes a step back toward the couch against the far wall—low, dark leather, half-draped in spare set towels—and sits with his legs spread. The jacket’s open. His chest is still bare, still slick, still glowing. He looks up at you like he already knows how this ends.
You don’t even hesitate.
You straddle him, one knee on each side, settling into his lap as his hands grip your thighs. Your mouths crash together, all teeth and heat, his tongue sliding against yours with a groan that’s half-lost in your throat.
Your hips grind down against him, slow and dirty. He’s already hard.
“You’re not gonna be quiet,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him.
He smirks. “You’re not gonna be quiet.”
You kiss him again just to shut him up, rolling your hips until he curses. He fumbles at your waistband, pushing clothes aside just enough, and you sink onto him slow, tight, so full it pulls a moan from both of you.
“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back against the couch.
You rock against him gently, deliberately—deep, sensual, quiet as you can manage. His hands are gripping your hips, helping you move, pulling you back down on each thrust like he can’t get you close enough.
Your hands flatten to his chest, your palms sliding up the curve of his abs, sweat making everything glide perfectly. You bite your lip, eyes locked on his face, the way he’s watching you, jaw clenched, trying to stay still.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper.
He smirks, breathless. “Like what?”
“Like you’re gonna come just from this.”
“Keep doing it like that, and I will.”
You grind harder, faster. His grip tightens. Your nails dig into his chest and he lets out a sound just loud enough to echo off the walls. You slap a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and breath ragged.
“Quiet.”
His eyes burn into yours, wild and wanting, and he nods with your hand still over his lips.
You ride him faster, clenching around him with every motion, until he pulls your face down to his and groans into your mouth as he comes, hips jerking up hard.
You follow a beat later—biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sharp cry that tears out of you. Silence falls. The only sound is the low hum of the looping footage on the monitor across the room.
You stay curled around him, chest to chest, forehead to his, both of you slick with sweat, breath coming in slow, shaky waves.
After a long moment, he murmurs—
“Should’ve filmed this for the director’s cut.”
You laugh, exhausted and high off him. “Please shut up.”
The glow of Bangkok spreads out below like spilled gold. Temple spires lit in amber, neon signs buzzing faintly in the distance, the occasional honk of a horn barely audible from this high up. The breeze is warm and slow, thick with jasmine and humidity, sticky in a way that clings to your skin like memory.
You sit side by side on a cushioned bench tucked into the corner of the rooftop terrace. A pair of lowball glasses sit on the table between you. Something fruity and strong, half-melted ice cubes clinking gently with every shift of your bodies.
Hoseok leans back, legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted toward the sky.
He’s in loose linen pants and an old black tee, damp hair pushed back, still glowing just slightly from the shower. One arm rests behind you along the back of the bench, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder without even thinking about it.
You take a sip, let it burn just a little, and glance sideways at him.
“We really did that,” you say quietly.
He hums. “Yeah. We did.”
The music video still hasn’t sunk in. Two days of intense shooting, of bodies grinding, cameras catching every breath, every glance. You haven’t seen a final cut yet, but the raw takes said it all.
You’re in it. In it.
You swirl the drink in your hand. “You think they’ll need reshoots?”
Hoseok lifts one shoulder. “Probably not. Maybe a pickup shot or two. But honestly? You nailed it. Everyone saw it.”
You glance down at the city below. “It still doesn’t feel real.”
“It will when it drops,” he murmurs, voice low and certain. “And the whole world loses its mind.”
You smile at that, then fall into a comfortable silence. The city sparkles quietly beneath your feet.
After a moment, Hoseok asks, “What’s the first thing you want to do when we get back to Korea?”
You exhale, long and soft. “I want to sleep in my own bed for two days straight. Maybe three.”
He laughs under his breath. “God, same.”
“And I want to dance. But not…for anyone. Just for myself.”
His hand slides down to rest lightly on your thigh. “You know you can do both, right?”
You look at him. His gaze is soft, relaxed. There’s no performance in his face now, just Hoseok, the man behind the stage lights. Your Hoseok.
“What about you?” you ask. “What do you want when we go home?”
He thinks for a second, then grins. “I want jjajangmyeon at 2am. My studio lights on. A playlist that makes me cry. And…” He pauses, reaching for his glass, eyes sliding back to yours. “You. There. Somewhere in the room.”
You laugh, a little breathless. “Doing what?”
He shrugs, sipping. “Stretching. Sleeping. Making fun of me. Doesn’t matter.”
Your heart tugs a little. Warm and aching.
You lean into his side, head resting on his shoulder. “I like that.”
“I like you.”
The city lights reflect in your glasses. The world moves far below and for the first time in a long time, you’re still.
The elevator ride down is quiet.
Not uncomfortable, never with him, but quiet in the way secrets tend to be. You stand beside Hoseok, close enough that the backs of your hands almost brush, but not quite. He doesn’t reach for you. You don’t look at him too long. Not here. Not with security cameras in the corners and hotel staff passing through the lobby like ghosts.
You both know better.
You never know who might be watching.
But still, when the elevator dings and you step into the hallway, there’s something shared in the glance he gives you. Subtle, loaded, warm.
He waits for you to slip into his room before closing the door behind you and just like that, the silence breaks. You both exhale a little laugh as you kick off your shoes, the low city buzz muted by thick hotel walls. The tension lifts. Your mask drops. His does too.
“God, I’m tired,” you mumble, stretching your arms overhead.
Hoseok grins and walks over, catching your wrist gently to pull you toward the bed. “Come here, drama queen.”
You tumble into the sheets together, soft and laughing. The comforter rustles around you as you shift and settle into place, your body instinctively curling toward his.
He wraps an arm around you as you press your face into his bare shoulder, skin warm and still smelling faintly of his shower soap. The muscles in his chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythm. Safe. Solid.
He turns his head and kisses you. Once. Then again.
Your forehead. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. Your chin.
“Stop,” you giggle, squirming into the blankets. “You’re clingy.”
“Liar,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw.
Then his mouth finds your temple. “You know I love you, right?”
It’s quiet. Not dramatic. Not planned. Just sleepy and soft, the way truth tends to slip out when your guard is down and your heart is full.
You smile, curling into him tighter. “Yeah. I know. I love you, too.”
His fingers slide into your hair, slow and steady, stroking softly until your breathing begins to even out against his chest. He holds you like that until the room fades into darkness. Until the city outside grows quiet. Until the only thing left is the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear, and the quiet comfort of being right where you belong.
You and Yunjin find a tiny boba place tucked behind a market, away from the tourist noise. The kind of place with mismatched tables and a ceiling fan that barely spins. You order your drinks, taro for her, brown sugar for you, and head outside to a little bench shaded by overgrown vines.
It’s the first time you’ve had a real day off in what feels like forever.
Yunjin exhales dramatically as she plops down beside you. “My feet might actually be broken.”
You laugh, sipping through your straw. “You looked like you were floating during the last chorus.”
“I was floating,” she says with a grin. “On pure adrenaline and two bottles of electrolytes.”
You giggle together for a moment, the kind that comes easy when you’re away from cameras and lighting cues and the sound of fans screaming your boyfriend’s name. Then she goes quiet for a beat, staring at her drink.
“I’ve been feeling really good lately,” she says after a second. “Like…confident. Like I know I’m getting better. I can feel it in my body and I’m hitting things sharper, cleaner. I’m reading the room better. And the feedback—” she pauses, then grins. “Even Hoseok’s been complimenting me.”
“You’ve been amazing,” you say honestly. “Every show.”
Her smile softens. “Thanks.”
She leans back against the bench, stretches her legs out in front of her, lets the sunshine soak into her jeans.
“I’m excited,” she says. “For what’s next. I’m finally starting to believe I have a real future in this.”
You nod, the pride in your chest matching hers. “You do.”
Then her smile fades just slightly.
“But I miss you.”
You turn to her, confused. “I’m right here?”
She laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. “No, I mean…I miss us. After shows. The late-night takeout, doing face masks half-asleep, trash-talking everyone’s footwork, staying up until 3am just because we couldn’t stop laughing.”
You swallow.
“I miss it too.”
“It’s like…” she trails off, tapping her straw. “I love how far we’ve come, but I miss when it was just me and you against the world, you know?”
You glance down at your drink. The guilt creeps in before you can stop it because she’s not wrong. You have been slipping away. Pulled in quiet, secret directions. Late nights spent not with her, but with Hoseok. And even if she doesn’t know the full truth yet; she feels the absence. You can tell.
“I’m sorry,” you say, gently.
Yunjin waves it off, but her smile is sad. “Don’t be. You’re doing your thing. You’re killing it. Everyone sees it. Hoseok especially.”
Your throat tightens a little.
She adds, teasing but not unkind, “So…are you gonna tell me what it’s like being his favorite now, or are you gonna keep dodging?”
You give a little laugh, the guilt folding into fondness. “He’s…intense, but in the best way. He cares so much about everything. Every move, every person. He notices things no one else does.”
Yunjin lifts a brow. “And you.”
You nod, slowly. “And me.”
She watches you for a moment, like she’s still trying to figure something out, but then just sighs and lets it go. In any other universe she would have known everything from the beginning, but now is not a good time to tell her.
“I’m happy for you,” she says quietly. “Whatever it is. I’m happy for you.”
You bite your lip.
“I’ll tell you everything one day.”
She nods, without pressing. Because that’s the kind of friendship you have. Deep-rooted. Built on trust and rhythm and years of knowing when to push and when to wait. For now, she loops her arm around yours and leans her head on your shoulder like she used to and for a moment, it’s like nothing’s changed.
The last stretch of the tour rolls out smoothly — Macau, Taoyuan, then Osaka — and it all clicks into place. No drama. No surprises. Just clean execution and the kind of cohesion that only comes from months of moving together, sweating together, learning how to breathe as a unit.
Macau brings a kind of focused energy. The shows are smaller but intimate in a way that pulls everyone in tighter. The crowd feels close enough to touch, and that heat carries through the entire weekend. You spend downtime reviewing MV cuts with Hoseok and fine-tuning little transitions in the Killin’ It Girl choreo. Nothing major—just spacing, breath, how long to hold a look before the drop—but every detail makes it sharper. More dangerous.
By Taoyuan, the group’s fully in sync. There’s a quiet confidence now, everyone locked into their roles. Each show feels lighter on your body and heavier with meaning—like you’re not just performing the tour, you’re carrying it toward something. Goyang is close. You can feel it humming in every backstage warmup, every group huddle, every shared look during counts. Everyone knows what Killin’ It Girl will become—the finale, the exhale, the point.
Osaka feels like the breath before the plunge. The dome is massive, and the roar of the crowd swells around you like a living thing. But there’s no anxiety left. Just polish. Everyone’s dialed in. Hoseok starts pushing a little harder in rehearsals that week—a deeper bend here, a longer hold there, more intention behind the glances between you. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can feel it: the dance isn’t just movement anymore. It’s a conversation. A promise.
And when it ends, when the final show in Osaka closes and you all file offstage drenched in sweat and euphoria, no one wants to talk too much. Everyone’s saving their breath.
The group’s still catching their breath, chests rising and falling as the last echoes of Killin’ It Girl melt into the walls of the BigHit practice room. The floor is slick with effort, the air too thick with heat and something else.
Hoseok says a clipped, almost hoarse, “Good job, everyone,” without looking at anyone in particular—least of all you—then bolts.
Literally bolts.
No cooldown, no huddle, no extra notes. Just the sound of his sneakers on the wood and the door slamming shut like it offended him.
Yunjin raises an eyebrow. “Okay…what the hell was that?”
You drape a towel around your neck, biting back a smile. “No idea.”
But you know. You felt it—the way his fingers lingered at your waist during the partner sequence, his grip just a little too tight. The heat of his breath when he was behind you, that one moment your eyes met and everything else faded. He looked wrecked. Controlled, but wrecked.
Now he’s gone, and your pulse hasn’t come down since.
The dancers trickle out, talking low and stretched-thin with exhaustion. You linger, kneeling beside your water bottle, pretending to stretch when really, you’re just waiting.
Then the door creaks.
One of the staff pokes his head in, voice low like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Y/N? He wants you in Studio C.”
You nod like it’s nothing.
But your heart skips.
The hallway feels too quiet—like it knows something’s about to happen. You walk fast, not because you're in a rush, but because if you slow down, you’ll think too much. The second your knuckles tap the door, it yanks open.
Hoseok grabs your wrist and pulls you in.
The door slams behind you. Then your back hits it, and his mouth crashes into yours before you can even breathe. It’s not gentle. It’s not polite. His hands are at your hips, dragging you into him like he needs contact to stay upright. His mouth is hot and open and messy against yours, all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he’s still dancing through you, chasing the last thread of that performance and pulling it into something real.
“You have no idea,” he groans into your mouth, “how hard it was to get through that number without losing my goddamn mind.”
Your fingers fist in his damp hair. “I could tell.”
“You were dancing like you wanted to ruin me.”
You smirk. “Maybe I did.”
His hands slide under your hoodie, pushing it up your spine, his thumbs tracing the band of your sports bra like he’s memorizing it. Your hips roll instinctively against his thigh, and he groans again, low and rough, his forehead pressed against yours for one breathless second before he kisses you again—sloppier now, more urgent.
“You’re dangerous,” he mutters, lips dragging down your jaw.
“Then stop pulling me into studios alone.”
“Never.”
He grabs the backs of your thighs and lifts you without warning. You wrap around him easily, already breathless, already laughing into his mouth as he stumbles back toward the old leather couch shoved into the corner. It groans under your combined weight as he lays you out across it, his body already covering yours, heavy and warm and ready.
His hand slides into your waistband, and you feel your breath hitch.
“Hobi—wait.”
He stills immediately, eyes jumping to yours, alarm flashing through them. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you breathe, still flushed, still spinning. “Just—aren’t Jimin and Jungkook supposed to be here soon?”
He groans loudly and drops his forehead to your chest, muttering something foul.
“I’m serious.”
He fumbles for his phone, screen lighting his face as he checks the time. Then: “We’ve got two hours.”
Your grin returns, slow and wicked. “Plenty.”
“Exactly.”
He kisses you again, this time deeper, more sure, the drag of his body against yours making every thought vanish. Clothes are tugged aside just enough, touches getting bolder, mouths moving with practiced desperation. It’s fast and hot and filthy, all rhythm and friction and whispering his name until it breaks apart into stuttered breaths and bitten-off moans.
When you come, it’s with your legs around his waist, his name tangled in your gasp, and his hand tight in yours. He follows with a low groan, face buried in your neck, hands clenched in the cushions like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
You lie there in the quiet, tangled and panting, the couch creaking beneath you with every shift.
Until knock knock.
You both freeze.
“Yo, Hoseok.”
Yoongi.
A pause.
“Is this studio unlocked?”
Hoseok doesn’t move. Just lets his head fall back against the couch with a sigh so defeated, so done, it makes you stifle a laugh.
You look at him. He looks at you.
“No way,” you whisper.
Hoseok mutters a vicious curse, dropping his head back against the couch again like it physically pains him. “Fucking Yoongi.”
You’re already scrambling—sweats yanked back up over your hips, hoodie tugged over your head with shaking fingers, hair finger-brushed into something vaguely human. Your cheeks burn. Your body’s still humming from what just happened, but you throw yourself into fixing your appearance like it might erase the last twenty minutes from existence.
Hoseok stays seated, adjusting his pants with none of the urgency. Still flushed, skin still damp. He moves slow, annoyed but unbothered, like Yoongi has interrupted him exactly one too many times.
He opens the door just enough to glare into the hallway. “You couldn’t text?”
Yoongi lifts a brow, leaning against the wall like he owns the building. “You weren’t answering. Thought maybe you passed out.”
Yoongi’s gaze slides past him and into the room—then lands on you.
You’re upright now, fully dressed, perched stiffly on the edge of the couch like you were caught stealing from the crown jewels.
His expression shifts instantly. Smug. Lazy. Amused.
“Yeah,” he says, voice cool, “I can tell.”
You stare at him.
Yoongi is real. Right there. No camera, no screen, no stage makeup. Just messy hair, clean face, and a fitted black long sleeve with gray sweatpants. Calm and casual in a way that makes your mouth dry up. He looks like he just woke up from a nap and still might be the most powerful person in the building.
It’s unfair.
He tilts his head. “Careful. Your boyfriend’s gonna get mad if you keep looking at me like that, Y/N.”
Your breath catches.
Boyfriend.
The word slices clean through the air like a cymbal crash. You whip your head toward Hoseok, heart pounding. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh or correct him. Just exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and looks more annoyed at Yoongi than anything else—like that’s what he’s reacting to.
And you? You’re stunned. That single word echoes through your whole body like a second heartbeat.
Yoongi smirks and flops down on the old piano bench across the room, folding his arms. “Anyway. Staff set up what you asked for. The boys’ll be here in, like, twenty.”
Hoseok nods, cool again. “Thanks.”
You stand slowly, still shaky, tugging at your sleeves.
“I should go,” you murmur, fumbling for your bag. “I mean, give you all space. I don’t wanna—”
“Nope,” Hoseok says, already crossing the room.
You blink. “What?”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Hobi…”
“It’ll be okay.” He stops in front of you, pressing a hand gently to your waist. Grounding. “Taehyung keeps asking about you. He really wants to meet you.”
Your whole chest tightens.
Taehyung. Asking about you.
It’s absurd. Unreal. Like stepping into a dream halfway through and pretending you belong there.
Suddenly, everything feels huge. Too real. You’re still breathless from the studio couch, and now Yoongi’s teasing you, Jimin and Jungkook are on their way, Hoseok just let “boyfriend” pass like it was nothing, and your name is being spoken by legends.
But then you look up at him.
Hoseok’s eyes are warm. Steady. Not one part of him looks uncertain.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly.
And just like that, something in you lets go.
You nod. “Okay.”
From behind you, Yoongi hums. “Was that a boyfriend voice just now? Cute.”
You bury your face in your hands as Hoseok flips him off behind your back.
Inside the practice room, the celebration is ready.
The lights are soft and warm. Balloons hover near the ceiling in clusters of white and purple, their ribbons dancing in the air-conditioning. Silver streamers dangle from the corners of the mirrors. A long folding table hugs the back wall, its surface crowded with snacks and a custom cake. The cake reads Welcome Home Jimin & Jungkook in smooth purple lettering, two edible photo cutouts of their boot-camp headshots standing like sentries in the icing. Pom-pom headbands rest in a neat row beside the plates, one labeled for each of the seven.
Soft music plays from a Bluetooth speaker near the floor.
Namjoon, Taehyung, Yoongi, and Jin are gathered near the snacks, laughing over something on Jin’s phone. Jin’s in a cream cardigan and wide-leg jeans, Namjoon in all black, Taehyung in something vintage and probably absurdly expensive. They’re loud and loose, all shoulder bumps and big gestures.
The door clicks.
Four heads turn.
Their laughter cuts short. They see you first. Then Hoseok, right behind you, still close, still casual, one hand ghosting the small of your back like it belongs there. They don’t speak. Just watch. Not rude. Not unfriendly. Just that laser-focused attention that only BTS can really pull off. Assessing without looking like they are. Measuring something invisible in the space.
Hoseok glances at them and lifts a brow. “Could you guys not look like you’re judging her soul?”
Namjoon blinks. “What? We’re not.”
Taehyung shrugs, head tilted, arms crossed. “She’s just really pretty. It’s distracting.”
Yoongi, already smiling, adds, “She’s been putting up with you, Hoseok. She’ll survive us.”
Jin nods, grave. “If she can watch him sweat through rehearsals and still be here, that’s true love.”
You laugh, half out of nerves, half because…they’re exactly who you hoped they’d be.
Hoseok smirks and pulls you a bit closer to his side.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Be nice. You’re intimidating.”
“Us?” Jin gasps, hand over his heart. “We’re sunshine.”
“You’re chaos,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.
They lose it. Namjoon’s wheezing. Jin is clapping his hands. Taehyung looks delighted.
Yoongi points at you like he’s already made his decision. “She’s in.”
Namjoon steps forward, extending a hand with a warm smile. “Welcome.”
Taehyung ignores the formality and wraps you in a hug, smelling like cedar and something designer. “You’re even cuter than the stories.”
You freeze. “Stories?”
Hoseok shrugs, proud. “Might’ve mentioned you. Once or twice.”
Jin hands you a pom-pom headband with your name written in glitter. “This is mandatory.”
You take it, grinning now. “Obviously.”
When the door opens again a few minutes later Jimin and Jungkook step into the room, both in full uniform. The room erupts.
It’s laughter, cheering, bodies rushing forward.
Jin shouts something too loud. Yoongi hugs them both at once. Namjoon’s eyes mist a little. Taehyung throws himself at Jungkook dramatically. And through it all, Hoseok watches them—his brothers—shoulders relaxed, smile wide.
Then Jimin spots you.
He pauses, and grins.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Hoseok never shuts up about you.”
Jungkook smirks, already elbowing Hoseok. “Seriously. We’ve seen more videos of you dancing than actual show footage.”
You blush. Hoseok groans. The teasing starts immediately.
And just like that, you’re not on the outside anymore.
You’re home.
The night stretches easy.
Laughter spills across the practice room floor, empty drink cups and snack wrappers scattered between crossed legs and socked feet. Jin’s telling a story about Hoseok’s very first solo tour tech run, something involving a broken mic, a torn sleeve, and a mild existential crisis, and everyone’s nearly crying from how animated he gets.
You're nestled between Hoseok and Taehyung, legs folded, arms resting loose over your knees. The pom-pom headband still sits slightly crooked on your head. Someone’s playlist is looping quietly in the background — R&B, a few old BTS B-sides, something low and vibey. It blends into the atmosphere, like the hum of the lights or the subtle thud of music still echoing in the mirrors.
“You guys have been out here killing yourselves every night,” Namjoon says, rubbing his neck. “I was watching those fancams like…damn. The choreo’s serious.”
“It’s the cleanest tour I’ve ever seen,” Jimin adds, nudging Hoseok’s arm. “You really built something crazy.”
“I didn’t build it alone,” Hoseok says, voice soft but proud. His hand brushes your back lightly as he glances toward you. “This team makes it work.”
You feel the heat in your chest before you can stop it.
“You must’ve had to level up like crazy,” Jungkook says, looking at you now. “Just to keep up with him.”
“She didn’t have to catch up,” Hoseok says. “She set the bar.”
Your breath catches. The room hums a little quieter around the edges.
“Oooh,” Taehyung leans in suddenly, eyes wide with mischief. “Wait, wait, can we see it?”
You blink. “See what?”
“You dance. Live.”
You freeze. “Right now?”
“I mean, yeah,” Jin grins. “You’ve got a fully mirrored studio and an audience of legends. C’mon.”
“Oh my god,” you laugh, burying your face in your hands. “No.”
Namjoon nudges Taehyung. “I think we broke her.”
“She’s shy,” Jimin teases. “That’s cute.”
“She doesn’t need to waste her energy on you guys,” Hoseok cuts in, playful but protective. “Concert’s tomorrow.”
“Ohhh,” Yoongi hums, dragging out the sound. “Now he sounds shy.”
“Hyung,” Hoseok warns.
“Look,” Yoongi says, stretching his legs out like he’s just getting comfortable. “All I’m saying is…she didn’t seem tired earlier.”
You go still.
The others blink.
“What do you mean?” Taehyung asks slowly, confused.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow, innocent as sin. “You know. When I knocked?”
It takes a second.
Then it hits.
“Oh my god,” Jin says, absolutely delighted.
“Wait, what?!” Jungkook yelps.
Namjoon’s eyes go huge. “Seriously?”
Hoseok groans into his hands. “Can we not—”
Jimin nearly chokes on his drink. “I knew it!”
“No, you didn’t,” Jungkook laughs. “You just got here.”
“I felt it in the vibe!” Jimin insists, pointing wildly. “It was weirdly charged in here when I walked in!”
Your face is in your hands. Hoseok’s slumped forward like he’s bracing for impact.
Taehyung is just blinking at both of you, wide-eyed and fascinated. “Wait. Is that couch even…like…safe?”
“Sanitize everything,” Jin says solemnly.
Yoongi grins. “I told him not to use Studio C. That couch has history.”
“Oh my god,” you mumble into your hands again.
Namjoon is howling, practically leaning on Jin for support.
Through it all, Hoseok just sighs, then mutters under his breath, “It was worth it.”
“What?!” Jungkook shrieks, full scandal mode.
Jimin claps his hands once, loud. “This tour’s got everything.”
But it’s not mean. None of it is.
They’re teasing because you’re one of them now. Because they like you. Because you’re not a question mark anymore. You’re his, and everyone in the room knows it, and no one seems to mind.
Not even a little.
And when Hoseok laces his fingers through yours, quietly, casually, without fanfare. you let him. Because they saw it coming and now they’re just glad to watch it bloom.
All the dancers crowd into the green room, bodies buzzing with nerves and energy. The walls are plastered with set lists, stage maps, and camera angle diagrams. It’s quieter than usual, expectant.
Hoseok paces at the front, dressed in full stage prep: black leather racing jacket open, sleeves rolled, fingerless gloves fitted, distressed denim hugging every line. His chest glistens under the soft lights. He moves through the group, scanning everyone with that fierce, proud look only he can wear.
You stand beside him, hoodie off, ready for the familiar playlist warm-up. Your nerves are buzzing—you’ve performed this song what feels like thousands of times. But tonight? BTS is in the audience, and TONIGHT it becomes immortal. The Goyang show is for keeps.
Hoseok stops and turns to face the group, clearing his throat.
“All right,” he says, voice low but commanding. “This is it. Everybody knows their sections. Tonight, we do Killin’ It Girl better than we ever have. I want unity—focus—fire.”
He locks eyes with you briefly, and tension uncoils in your chest. That look says it all: I believe in you.
He steps closer, inches from your face. Quiet, warm. “Let’s show them how hard we’ve worked. You ready?”
You nod, heart steadying. “Let’s go.”
He punches you lightly on the shoulder. “Bring the heat. Then bring it harder.”
At the same time, the monitor door swings open and BTS members trickle in—Namjoon, Jin, Yoongi, Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung—all dressed casually but radiating that star‑power gravity. They slip into the back row, settling in to watch.
Jungkook whispers to Jimin, nodding toward you and Hoseok, the tension obvious in his gaze.
Hoseok clears his throat again and raises a hand. “We’re filming a practice cut before the show. This is on‑camera—this is your stage. Let’s move.”
The intro drums kick in.
Every dancer springs into rhythm. You lock eyes with Hoseok, your bodies synced before the first beat drops, hips rolling, torsos speaking without words. He pulls you into that slow, lethal grind in the partner section, his leg pressing between yours, heat radiating low in your belly.
The room goes still, even the camera crew halts to watch. Everyone’s caught in the flame of your connection, watching two dancers flip from technique to intimacy in seamless unison.
When the track cuts, the room breathes out at once.
Hoseok straightens, jacket falling open like a banner. He grips your shoulder—firm, proud.
“That’s it,” he says, voice soft but carried. “That was perfect.”
He releases you and turns to the group.
“Heat, precision, connection—that’s what we bring tonight.”
Yoongi steps forward, clapping once. “Hell of a warm-up.”
Jimin grins. “Even I got chills.”
Taehyung leans forward, eyes sparkling. “You two killed it.”
The energy hums electric now, a living thing in the room.
Hoseok steps in front of the group, raising his hand in a quiet salute.
The crowd is roaring like thunder from behind the stage wall, a constant, vibrating tide of sound that rattles the floor beneath your feet.
You’re on one side of the stage—off in the shadows—heart racing, outfit clinging to you in all the right places. Across the stage, the other dancers are grouped at their mark, hidden in the wings beneath deep, moody lighting. The crew moves quietly between cues, but right here, right now, it’s just the two of you.
Hoseok stands next to you, cloaked in shadow.
He’s wearing the full Killin’ It Girl look tonight—black leather racing jacket zipped halfway, dark shirt underneath, the silver chain at his throat catching the faintest glint from the safety lighting. His gloves are on. His breathing is calm.
His jaw is tight.
You know this version of him—the one that switches off the smiles, trades them for something lethal. He doesn’t like to grin during this track. Says it doesn’t match the attitude. Doesn’t fit the hunger.
But you? You like pushing him. The music swells low in the background as the cue countdown starts in your in-ear.
5…4…
He shifts closer to you in the dark. There’s no one around. Not here. Not in this sliver of silence right before impact.
You turn to say something—anything—but his hand lifts first.
He grabs your jaw, soft but firm, and presses a kiss to your mouth.
Just once. Just long enough to steal your breath.
And then he’s gone—jogging into position with smooth precision, already rolling his shoulders back, resetting his whole posture into that sleek, dangerous swagger.
You touch your lips, still dazed. The crowd doesn’t know. The cameras didn’t catch it.
But you know.
And when the beat drops?
You go feral.
You hit the stage like fire.
Everything is electric—your limbs move on instinct, synced with the pounding beat, the bass vibrating in your bones. The crowd is deafening, but the world narrows to the space between you and him. When he reaches for you during the partner section—hand at your waist, grind sharp and deliberate—you lean in a little closer than usual. Just a hair. Just enough to feel his breath.
His jaw tenses. He doesn’t break.
Yet.
The dance keeps going. He leads the group like a man possessed, movements snapping like whiplash. But you keep pushing—angles tighter, eyes locked, hips rolling just a little slower than rehearsed. Every move intentional. Every step choreographed to tease.
Then, during that moment—that moment—where your faces come so close it could almost be mistaken for a kiss, he mouths it:
“Killin’ it, baby.”
You almost stumble.
Almost.
Your heart skips a beat so hard it ricochets through your entire chest, but your body keeps moving, locked in the flow of the performance. You snap back into the music, more alive than ever and for the briefest second, as you turn—just before the next formation break.
He smiles.
Not a big one. Not open.
But it’s there.
And you did that.
The noise of the crowd is still echoing in your bones when the dressing room door swings open and the rest of BTS floods in like a storm of laughter, cologne, and electric energy.
You’re in Hoseok’s dressing room now—just the eight of you. The other dancers are off in their own greenroom, celebrating with staff and stylists. But here? It’s quieter. Intimate. Charged in a different way.
Jin barrels in first with a shout of, “THAT WAS INSANE!” while Jungkook yells, “You guys—what the fuck!” and throws himself onto the couch like he’s still winded from watching.
Jimin claps you on the shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. “Watching you two live? So different. The fancams do not do that justice.”
Namjoon just grins, arms crossed, like he saw it all coming.
“That chemistry is wild,” he says. “I don’t know how you stay in sync like that with that much heat.”
Yoongi hums. “Looked like foreplay.”
Hoseok immediately throws a towel at his face.
But they mean it—all of it. The praise is genuine, loud, overwhelming in the best way. Your face is hot and you’re still catching your breath when the conversations start to split into little pockets: Jin asking about transitions, Jungkook replaying clips on his phone, Yoongi and Namjoon debating lighting cues and verse structure.
You slip toward the snack table, heart still fluttering, when a voice finds you.
“You were incredible tonight.”
You turn.
Taehyung’s leaning against the wall, drink in hand, looking unbothered—but there’s a gleam in his eye like he’s been holding something back.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling softly.
He leans in slightly. “Also…who’s the girl with the red hair?”
You blink. “Yunjin?”
“Yunjin,” he echoes, like he’s trying the name out. “Where is she during the encore section? She comes in hard right after the second lift, yeah?”
You nod, brow raised. “You’ve been watching her that closely?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lifts a shoulder, eyes on yours. “She’s got presence. Real rhythm, and she looks like she’s having fun. That’s rare.”
You smile. “Wanna meet her?”
His eyes light up instantly. “Absolutely.”
You try not to laugh as you lead him out of the dressing room, navigating through the hallway chaos and past a few startled staffers. When you open the door to the dancers’ greenroom, the volume spikes—shouts, laughter, someone playing music from a phone.
Yunjin’s perched near the center, legs crossed, hair up in a messy claw clip. The red strands frame her face in soft waves, cheeks still flushed from the stage.
You call her name once, and she looks up. Then she freezes. You swear she stops breathing when she sees who’s behind you.
“Yunjin,” you say sweetly, barely holding your grin in, “this is Taehyung.”
She stands too fast, almost stumbles. “Oh—hi! Wow. Hi.”
Taehyung smiles wide, all teeth and velvet. “Hi.”
There’s a pause. A beat and then—
“I loved your section in Equal Sign,” he says smoothly. “That ripple effect you lead during the second chorus? Chef’s kiss.”
Yunjin’s mouth opens and closes. “I—yeah. That was me. I—thank you.”
They fall into conversation naturally—him asking about setlists, her trying not to combust as she talks through choreography choices. He leans in when she speaks. She tucks her hair behind her ear a lot.
You give it five minutes. Then you dip back out.
Back in Hoseok’s dressing room, things have calmed slightly. Jimin’s taken over the speaker, playing something mellow. Jin’s on the couch with a wet wipe pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady. Hoseok’s pacing with a water bottle in hand, scanning the room until he sees W
hen your eyes meet, he smiles.
Not the Killin’ It Girl smirk. Not the stage persona.Just his smile. The kind that says, There you are, and you walk straight back into it.
The adrenaline’s mostly gone now. Your bodies are finally relaxing, limbs heavy and clean, fresh from your showers and tucked into old sleep shirts and mismatched socks. You and Yunjin are curled up on the couch in a nest of pillows and blankets, sharing a pint of ice cream while a muted K-drama flickers on the TV—ignored entirely.
Neither of you says much for a while. You’re both still soaking it in.
Yunjin stares at the ceiling like she’s waiting for it to speak.
You bump her knee with yours. “Still breathing?”
She blinks slowly. “Barely.”
You grin. “You haven’t said a word since we walked in the door.”
She turns her head toward you, face still a little dazed. “That’s because I’m trying to process the fact that Kim Taehyung remembered my part.”
You let your smile spread, slow and proud. “That moment where you hit the front line and do that ripple down into the floor—yeah. He called it out like it was his job.”
“He said I looked like I was having fun.”
“You did.”
“I was dying inside.”
You laugh into your spoon. “It didn’t show.”
Yunjin hugs a pillow to her chest like it’s holding her together. “He’s so cool.”
“I know.”
“He said my name like he’d heard it before. Like he already knew it.”
“He probably did.”
She looks over at you, eyes a little shiny. “I can’t believe you brought him over to meet me.”
You shrug. “I knew you’d be riding the high. You were glowing. It was the perfect moment.”
She flops back into the cushions dramatically. “He’s my ult, you know that?”
“I’ve known that since 2017.”
“He’s the reason I kept dancing when I wanted to quit.”
You smile into the spoon between your teeth. “I know.”
Her voice goes quiet. “Thank you.”
You glance over. “You crushed it tonight. You earned it.”
Another beat of soft silence.
“Do you think he’ll text me?”
You blink. “Wait…did you give him your number?”
She sits bolt upright. “OH MY GOD I DON’T THINK I DID.”
You nearly launch the ice cream across the room. “YUNJIN—”
Screaming. Laughing. Thrashing blankets. A spoon goes flying somewhere into the dark.
“I panicked,” she wails, grabbing a couch pillow and screaming into it.
You roll off the couch, choking with laughter. “We are literally going to text Hoseok right now.”
She peeks up from the pillow. “You’re an angel. A queen. A miracle worker.”
You grin, breathless. “I know.”
Just like that, the room melts into late-night giggles, stolen spoonfuls, and that warm hum of pride between you. Best friend energy. A little delirious, a lot grateful. Buzzing with everything the night gave you.
You didn’t just survive the biggest show of your life.
You shined.
And so did she.
Your phone buzzes just as Yunjin heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth, still babbling about the way Taehyung said her name.
You glance at the screen and immediately feel heat rise up your neck.
Hoseok 🖤 attached image
It’s a selfie, dimly lit, warm-toned, taken from the pillows. Hoseok’s bare chest is on full display, skin still flushed from the stage, hair damp and messy from a post-show shower. The covers are pushed low around his hips, teasing more than they show. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted like he’s somewhere between bored and starving.
Hoseok 🖤
You coming over or do I have to suffer like this all night?
You bite your lip hard, heart thudding.
You glance at the closed bathroom door, then slowly lift your shirt just enough, snap a quick shot from the collarbone down. Nothing too scandalous, just skin and suggestion. A hint of the lace beneath. The kind of photo that says you’re not the only one suffering.
You send it with a message:
Behave. You’ll get your reward tomorrow nightI’m coming home with you after the show. Count on it
The reply is nearly instant:
H 🖤 Can’t wait You’re sleeping in my shirt And nothing else
You press your phone to your chest and let out a breathy little laugh, warmth spilling through your whole body. It doesn’t matter that you're across town or that there’s still a whole finale show to get through tomorrow. Because you know exactly where you’ll end up tomorrow night and so does he.
You wake to the soft buzz of your phone lighting up beside you.
H 🖤Hey. My family decided last minute to come to the show. They’re at my apartment now… and they want to meet you.
You sit up fast, heart hammering before you even read the message twice.
His family.
You stare at the screen, still foggy from sleep but fully panicked now, and text back quickly:
You: Is that…actually a good idea?
Your phone starts ringing almost immediately.
You answer. “Hobi—”
His voice is warm and calm on the other end. “Come over.”
“Hobi, I don’t think—what if it’s too soon? I don’t want to make it weird, or—”
“They asked to meet you,” he interrupts gently. “They want to know who I’ve been so happy about.”
You go quiet.
“I’ll send a car,” he adds. “You won’t be seen, it’s underground access. Just…come. Please.”
“…Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure.”
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes, a smile in his voice. “I’ll be waiting.”
You hang up and stare at your reflection in the mirror for a second before launching into full preparation mode. Modest blouse, soft slacks, clean ponytail. Minimal makeup. The outfit says respectful, low-key, and I might be dating your son but I’m not a threat to the bloodline.
Yunjin’s still curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket.
“Going out for a bit,” you lie. “I’ll see you at the show.”
“Mmhmm,” she mumbles. None the wiser.
The car drops you off underground just like he promised. Hoseok is already waiting by the elevator—black tee, soft gray sweats, sneakers half-tied like he’s been pacing.
You barely get a word out before he hugs you.
It steadies your nerves. A little.
He holds your hand as you walk into his apartment.
Inside, the space is warm and sunlit. His mother sits on the edge of the couch in a pale pink sweater, hands resting delicately in her lap. His father stands when you walk in—quiet and gentle-eyed. His sister Jiwoo (undeniably stylish, of course) is lounging with one leg crossed, and her husband is mid-sip of tea when he looks up.
Hoseok stops beside you and says,
“This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”
Your heart skips hard.
His mother’s eyes widen slightly. Jiwoo raises her brows, then smiles slowly, and suddenly the quiet has weight.
You bow deeply. “It’s so nice to meet you all. Thank you for letting me be here.”
There’s a pause.
Then his mother rises with a soft, graceful smile. “We’re the lucky ones.”
Jiwoo grins. “Girlfriend, huh?”
“Was that new information?” her husband murmurs, earning a light smack to the arm.
Hoseok squeezes your hand behind your back. His thumb brushes the edge of your wrist, grounding.
The awkwardness lasts maybe two minutes. Jiwoo, as expected, is the first to completely shatter the tension with a comment about how Hoseok definitely did not inherit his fashion sense from their father. Everyone laughs. The warmth grows.
They ask you about dance, touring, your background. You ask them about Korea, about Jiwoo’s boutique, about Hoseok’s baby photos—an instant hit. They say you’re lovely. That you’re “so pretty,” “so well-spoken,” “so warm.” His mother’s eyes shine the whole time.
They’ve heard about you. A lot. And now they can finally see why.
When it’s time for them to leave—plans to go shopping before the show—his mother takes both your hands before she steps out.
“Thank you for making our son so happy,” she says quietly. “I can tell he loves you very much.”
You blink, breath caught in your chest. “I love him too.”
Her smile only grows. “Good.”
When the door closes and the silence settles back over the apartment, Hoseok pulls you into his arms immediately, face pressed to your hair.
“See?” he murmurs. “Told you they’d love you.”
You smile against his chest, tears threatening the corners of your eyes and now, you believe it.
You're still floating from the calm energy of meeting his family, sipping warm tea on his couch, your shoes politely placed by the door, your heartbeat finally slowing to a reasonable pace, when Hoseok’s phone starts buzzing on the kitchen counter.
He glances at the screen, frowns.
“Hybe,” he mutters.
You watch as he answers, voice clipped. “Yeah? Right now?”
He paces for a moment, jaw tight, the muscles in his back tensing beneath his shirt. Then he sighs, annoyed, and hangs up.
“What’s going on?” you ask softly, setting your cup down.
“Nothing serious,” he lies too easily. “They just need me at the building. Some scheduling thing, probably.”
You narrow your eyes. “On the day of your final show?”
He shrugs, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be back soon. But if I can’t make it back in time, I already told the team to send a car for you.”
You study him, but he’s already reaching for his hoodie and sliding on his sneakers like he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I’ll see you at the venue,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.
Then he’s gone.
And something about the way he left makes your chest feel heavy.
He moves fast, jaw clenched the entire elevator ride. He’s already irritated they had the audacity to call him in today—of all days—and now he’s walking into a fluorescent-lit conference room with all the warmth of a hospital.
Inside, the room is full.
Two of his managers. Three high-level HYBE executives. And sitting side-by-side near the window?
The same two choreographers who pushed back on Killin’ It Girl.
Of course.
He steps inside, crossing his arms. “This better be important.”
One of the executives doesn’t waste time. “We’ll get right to the point. Are you in a romantic relationship with Y/N?”
The room tenses like someone pulled a wire.
Hoseok lifts his chin. “That’s none of your business.”
One of the choreographers makes a noise like they’ve just been proven right.
“It is our business,” a manager says carefully. “Because she’s under contract. A contract that includes very clear language about engaging in a personal relationship with you.”
Hoseok’s stomach drops.
“She could be terminated for this,” the manager continues. “It’s a breach of policy.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Hoseok scoffs. “Terminated? For what? For falling for someone she works with?”
“This is about professionalism,” one of the higher-ups says. “About boundaries. Optics.”
“This is about control,” Hoseok snaps. “She’s the best dancer on this tour. There’s no show without her.”
“That’s not true,” one of the choreographers cuts in. “Any of the female dancers could step in—”
“No, they couldn’t,” Hoseok says, louder now. “You’ve seen the chemistry. You’ve seen what we built. You think I’d put just anyone in that role? You think I’d trust anyone else with that number?”
He takes a step forward.
“She’s irreplaceable. She makes this real.”
There’s a pause. A quiet shift.
One of the managers speaks, softer this time. “There’s a way out of this. If we label it as a breach, she can stay on contract if she pays the fine.”
“How much?” Hoseok asks immediately.
Everyone stares at him.
The manager gives the number. It’s not small.
“I’ll pay it,” Hoseok says without hesitation.
They blink.
“I said I’ll pay it,” he repeats. “And I want it filed and handled today. Quietly.”
The room is stunned into silence.
Then Hoseok squares his shoulders.
“My personal life isn’t yours to dissect. She’s mine. She’s brilliant. And if this is what it takes to protect her, then I’ll sign the check right now.”
He exhales hard, fingers twitching.
“Now if we’re done playing power games, I have a concert to prepare for.”
He turns on his heel and walks out, leaving them in stunned silence.
You’re seated cross-legged on one of the cushioned benches, a bottle of water sweating in your hand. The atmosphere in the green room is light, but you’re tense. You are smiling when you need to, nodding when someone speaks, but your thoughts haven’t stopped racing since Hoseok left this morning without an explanation.
Why HYBE? Why now?
Yunjin’s perched next to you, legs swinging as she reads off some wild plot twist from the book she just started.
“And then, out of nowhere, the guy just straight-up vanishes and she realizes—”
“Uh-huh,” you say, eyes flicking toward the door again.
She stops mid-sentence, giving you a look. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
Before you can respond, the green room door opens.
And he walks in.
Hoseok enters flanked by staff members in black tour tees, each one carrying a distinct pop of color in their hands. Your heart jumps when you spot what they’re holding: soft pink, pillowy duffle-style Speedy P9 Bandoulière 40 bags, each one custom-dyed in LV’s seasonal Candy colorway. A luxurious bubblegum-meets-rose with tonal leather trim, matte gold hardware, and an adjustable thick canvas strap for crossbody wear. The bags are a flawless mix of playful and iconic. And each one is huge, just big enough to feel like it’s carrying something personal.
You sit up straighter as the staff begins handing them out.
Hoseok moves through the room quietly, focused.
Each dancer receives a bag. Gasps and laughter start to echo as they unzip the tops, inside: stacks of neatly folded tour merch, signed polaroids, hotel keycards marked with specific dates, even personalized messages in hand-drawn envelopes. A few squeals break out as people realize what’s inside.
When Hoseok reaches you, he hands yours over carefully.
You take it, surprised by how soft and heavy it is.
It’s the same color as the others—that dreamy, almost creamy pink—yours has embroidery in crisp white thread along one side:
Team Hope
You run your fingers over it slowly.
On the other side?
Your name. Perfectly stitched. Just below the zipper line.
Your chest tightens.
Hoseok leans in as the others start digging into their bags, excitement rising in the room.
“Don’t open it here,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low, private. “Wait.”
You blink up at him. His expression is calm—unreadable, almost—but his hand lingers just slightly on the strap before he moves on.
Your fingers grip the canvas tighter. And your nerves? Louder than ever. Because you’re not sure what just happened this morning. But you have a feeling that whatever’s in this bag…it’s not just about tour.
Later the lights are down.
The roar of the crowd is a physical thing, thousands of fans screaming themselves hoarse, their fanchants bouncing off every inch of the stadium walls.
Your pulse is thudding so hard it’s syncing with the bass. The second stage is glowing beneath your sneakers. Your heart’s somewhere in your throat.
Across from you, just off the edge of the dark stage, Hoseok stands.
His silhouette is pure fire.
Black riding-style leather jacket, and nothing underneath. His skin gleams under the pre-show lights, sculpted abs flexing with every inhale, body oiled to perfection. His hair is damp, curled slightly at the ends, a single strand slipping over his brow. Fingerless gloves. Low-slung pants. Chain glinting at his throat.
He looks like sin personified.
And his eyes are on you.
No crowd. No cameras. Just him and you and the breath between beats.
The intro pulses in your ears. One glance. One nod.
Then the stage erupts. You move like liquid fire. The choreography is second nature by now, but tonight, it’s something else. Every step, every roll of your hips, every sharp snap of your arm is fed by the burn behind your ribs. Your body locks with his like magnets drawn too close. Never repelling, only pulling.
When his hand finds your waist, it’s rougher. Tighter. He doesn’t just touch you. He claims you. Pulls you in chest-to-chest, no fabric between you but heat and want and sweat. Your thigh presses between his. His palm slides higher on your back than usual. Fingers digging in, anchoring you. You spin out, snap back, roll down into the floor while his eyes track you like prey.
He doesn’t smile.
He smolders.
During the downbeat drop, when your hips meet his again, he grabs your jaw—full palm, thumb beneath your lip—and pulls your face close, closer, until your noses almost brush.
He mouths it low, just for you:
“Mine.”
Your breath stutters and then the smirk appears. Just a flicker. Not for the crowd. For you.
You push right back—hands on his chest, nails grazing bare skin, dragging your face just past his, lips to his jawline, making the mic feed sizzle. His fingers flex around your hip. You feel the tremor run through him.
The audience loses it. The air is thick with screams, but none of it matters. Not right now. Because you and Hoseok are burning a hole through the stage, not just dancing, but making a statement.
Every move says: I want you.Every glance says: I have you.And every grab, every grind, every goddamn beat of that song says what he can’t say out loud right now:
You’re his.
When the music cuts and the lights drop—both of you frozen in the final pose, his hand still clutching your hip, your breath crashing against his jaw—the silence lasts a second longer than it should, because no one wants it to end.
Last night was warm and loud—celebratory drinks with the dancers, BTS dropping in mid-meal like local celebrities, laughter ringing out across plates of grilled meat and clinking soju bottles. Hoseok stayed near you most of the night, his hand brushing yours under the table, his eyes soft every time you met his gaze.
By the time you got home, you were both too exhausted to do anything more than melt into each other. Some soft, sleepy kisses, his hand cradling the back of your neck as your fingers brushed under his shirt, but that was it. He pulled you into his chest, mumbled something about how proud he was of you, and passed out.
Now it’s morning, and you wake in his bed alone, soft sunlight streaking through the curtains.
He’s left a note on the pillow beside you in his neat handwriting:
Off to meet the guys, help yourself to anything. Text me when you wake up
You stretch slowly, smile to yourself, then finally turn your attention to the one thing that’s been waiting quietly in the corner since yesterday:
The pink Speedy P9 Bandoulière 40.
You sit up in his oversized tee, pulling the bag into your lap. You unzip it slowly.
Inside, nestled beneath the tour merch, carefully folded sweatshirts, polaroids, and venue wristbands—there’s something extra.
A silk pouch. Black. And when you open it, your breath hitches.
Inside: a set of lace lingerie. Deep wine red. Delicate sheer panels. High-cut panties. Matching garter. A tiny tag still attached from a boutique brand you know isn’t sold in Korea.
Beneath it? A discreet little box—inside, a sleek vibrating plug and a small bottle of warmed oil.
You take your time in the shower. Let the heat sink into your muscles, scrub off the haze of the tour, the show, the exhaustion.
And when you’re done? You try on the lingerie. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. You pose in the mirror for a moment, tilting your head. The garters make your legs look impossibly long. The bra lifts just right. The deep red against your skin? Unreal.
You grab your phone.
The first photo is tasteful — standing in front of the mirror, just enough light, hips cocked, one strap falling slightly off your shoulder. Then a second, a bit bolder — perched on Hoseok’s bed, leaning back on your hands. A third, with the toy box peeking in frame.
You attach them all to a message and hit send.
You:
Miss you already. Thinking of leaving this on for when you come back 😉
It doesn’t take long.
H🖤
You’re evil
Do you want me to die in front of my members??
How am I supposed to look Namjoon in the eye while I’m semi-hard
You grin, biting your lip.
You:
Should I stop?
H🖤
If you send one more photo I’m telling them I’m leaving early and coming straight home
Pause.
Another message.
H🖤Actually… I might anyway
Don’t move.
Your heart stutters.
You sink back into his sheets with a wicked smile on your lips, legs crossed delicately at the ankles, your phone buzzing again.
H🖤
You’re wearing that until I walk through the door
And just like that, the game has officially begun.
You’re still in his bed. In the lingerie that he handpicked for you. Still waiting.
The room smells like warm skin and faintly of Hoseok’s favorite cologne. His pillow is next you, rumpled. You haven’t moved except to reapply your lip gloss once, and check your reflection more times than you’d like to admit.
The doorknob clicks.
Your heart lurches. He steps inside like he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment he left. The door barely shuts before he’s locking it and turning toward you, expression already molten.
He drinks you in. Laid out in his bed like you belong there. Legs draped elegantly, sheer lace hugging every curve. Your lips parted. Your eyes shameless.
He drops his bag to the floor and crosses the room in three slow, deadly steps.
His voice is quiet, dark velvet.
“You listened.”
You smile. “I did.”
Hoseok runs a hand through his hair, jaw ticking. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
You sit up slowly, fingers grazing his wrist as he steps close.
He kisses you like it’s punishment—deep, deliberate, a hand fisting in your hair while the other presses against the center of your chest, pushing you back onto the mattress. His breathing is already shaky.
You whisper against his lips, “Do something about it.”
He pulls away just enough to look down at you.
Then with a soft, amused breath, he reaches for the drawer by the bed. When he pulls out the silk restraints, you exhale sharp.
“Still okay?” he asks, already brushing one gently over your arm.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want it,” you murmur. “I want you.”
His eyes stay locked on yours as he moves slow, focused, reverent.
He threads the silk gently around your wrist, then the other, anchoring you to the carved headboard in quiet, fluid motions. You watch him through your lashes, your breath fluttering like wings against your ribs. The fabric is cool against your skin at first, but it warms quickly with the heat of your pulse. Hoseok ties you with precision, but not harshness. He ties you like he’s been dreaming about this. Because he has. You’ve discussed trying something like this with him in the past, but you didn’t think it would happen so soon.
And when he finishes, he just…looks at you. Takes you in like you’re the only thing in the world that’s real. Like everything else—the tour, the fame, the noise—is background static.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly, voice barely above a breath. “No one sees you like I do.”
Your throat tightens. You believe him.
He traces one finger down the center of your body, from your throat to your navel. His touch is feather-light, reverent. It’s not just physical—it’s devotional. He makes you feel like a secret. A miracle. Something holy.
Then he shifts, lowers himself to your chest, and kisses the edge of the bra cup—slow, dragging, just hot breath and reverent lips. You squirm slightly, testing the silk around your wrists. It holds. It heightens everything.
He smiles when he feels you twitch beneath him.
“You’re already shaking.”
You can’t help it. “You haven’t even—”
His mouth closes around your nipple through the lace, and you gasp, cut off. He hums into you, soft and low, like he’s tasting you.
He takes his time.
Every kiss burns. Every lick is drawn out and slow. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else. He doesn’t need to. He’s building pressure with nothing but mouth and breath and heat—watching you crumble for him piece by piece.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs as he moves lower. “Everything about you. This body. This heart. What you give me onstage, and what you give me here…”
His hand slides under your thigh, lifting, positioning.
“I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“Yes, you do,” you whisper, wrecked already. “You do.”
He closes his mouth over you and you forget how to breathe.
It’s overwhelming. His tongue, his rhythm, the pace. It’s intentional and unrelenting. He pins you with one hand on your hip, the other gripping your thigh tight as he devours you like he’s been starving. No teasing now. He’s laser-focused, worshipping with mouth and hunger and purpose.
You try to stay quiet.
You fail.
Every moan, every cry slips out unfiltered, your hips jerking against the silk restraints. You call his name like a prayer. Like you’ve forgotten everything except him.
He doesn't stop. Not when your legs start trembling. Not when you’re gasping, eyes wide and unfocused. Not even when you break—coming undone so violently it silences you mid-scream. And still, he keeps going. Draws it out. Drowns you in it.
Only when you're boneless, collapsed against the sheets, does he finally pull back—chest heaving, lips slick, eyes full of fire. You’re blinking up at him, barely able to speak, wrists still bound, when he finally sheds the rest of his clothes and slides over you. His skin is burning. His chest brushes yours. You feel everything.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against your throat, voice wrecked and reverent.
You nod, dazed. “I’m yours.”
When he finally presses into you, it’s not gentle—but it’s not rough either. It’s urgent. Like he needs this to anchor himself. Like you’re the only thing that makes him real and the way he moves inside you? Desperate. Deep. Rhythmic. Possessive. He groans your name into your shoulder, kisses your mouth mid-thrust, rests his forehead against yours as you lose yourselves together.
The silk still holds. You feel the world dissolve. Time ceases to matter. Words become useless. It’s just skin and breath and everything you’ve ever wanted said without language.
The rhythm finds its own language—not fast, not slow, but insistent. Anchored by everything that came before.
His hands are everywhere.
One presses at your waist, grounding you beneath him; the other slides along your thigh, fingertips memorizing skin he already knows by heart. He moves like he’s afraid to lose the moment, like he needs to feel you to stay in his body. His breath stutters against your cheek as he murmurs your name again, barely there.
The silk around your wrists tugs softly with every thrust.
You’re unraveling under him—not just from the intensity, but from the emotion. The way he looks at you. The way his body tells you what words can’t.
It’s not just heat.
It’s not just sex.
It’s everything.
You feel it in the way he kisses you mid-moan, like he can’t stand the space between. In the way he slows just slightly when he sees your eyes flutter. In the quiet whimper he lets out when you whisper “Hoseok” like it’s the only thing you remember.
Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. Your body arches to meet him, needing more, needing all of it.
“Look at me,” he breathes, voice cracked open. “I want to see you.”
You do. Even through the haze. Your eyes find his and you swear the room drops away completely.
His hips grind deeper now, slower, like he’s painting you from the inside out. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You bite back the sob that catches in your throat because how does this feel like falling in love all over again?
“I feel you,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “I feel all of you.”
The tension coils again. It’s sharp and dizzying, climbing fast. His name tumbles out of you in pieces. He grabs your hand—still bound at the wrist—and laces your fingers as much as the silk allows.
“You’re mine,” he says again, ragged.
And when you come, it’s like something sacred snaps inside you. Not loud, silent. A trembling, gasping stillness as your body locks, tightens, and breaks.
Hoseok chases you over the edge seconds later. A rough, guttural sound punching from his chest as he thrusts once, twice more before burying himself deep with a shudder that runs through every inch of him. He doesn’t move right away. Just collapses into your shoulder, arms braced to keep from crushing you, breath hot against your skin.
Silence fills the room.
Sacred. Shaking. Heavy with the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need to be named.
After a long moment, his fingers move gently to the knots at your wrists. He unties you carefully, reverently, like he’s returning something precious.
Your arms fall around him as he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, skin still slick, heartbeat still thudding like a drum.
He kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your lips, soft and slow and lingering.
“You’re everything,” he whispers.
You believe him.
You tuck your face into his neck, both of you still trembling, still tangled, still floating.
Shared as part of the Similarly Sequestered game with @kpopfanfictrash, @underthejoon, @fortunexkookie, @gukslut and me!
Rating: M (Explicit 18+)
Word Count: 24.1K
Prompt: “The FBI doesn’t care about your porn preferences.” {Body Swap AU, Soulmates AU}
Genre: Fluff, humor, smut, oneshot
Summary: The convenience store across the street from your apartment carries your favorite energy drink. That’s why you frequent it. It’s definitely not because you have a big fat crush on the owner you’ve been flirting with for the better part of a year. Of course your brand of flirting can also be misconstrued as bickering. When a strange man wanders into the store, he thinks you need a little nudge to embrace the strings connecting you. Next thing you know you’re waking up in a body that definitely doesn’t belong to you. You can’t decide if it’s the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
CW & Other Tags: Anxiety attacks, language, oral sex, unprotected sex, nipple play, fingering, Agent of Chaos Jin, shopkeeper Yoongi, idiots to lovers, frenemies to lovers, bodyswap shenanigans
Pairings: Yoongi x Reader
Posted on June 23, 2020 by stutterfly and cross-posted to Ao3. I do not allow reposting, translations, or edits, to this or any other platform, including YouTube.
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The bell at the top of the door jingles as another customer walks into the store, but you pay them no mind. You’re already scanning the refrigerated drinks section for the third time, scouring the rows of cans and bottles for your beverage of choice. There’s only one kind of energy drink you want but its usual location is barren. Desperate to find what you’re searching for, you squat down to look behind the other drinks in the fridge.
“You’re not going to find any.”
The familiar, disinterested drawl of the shopkeeper has you popping up from the floor to look over at him. He wears a green apron over a black tee and a pair of faded jeans. His back is to you so he doesn’t have to see your face when you complain. He reaches up to take off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through thick locks of ebony hair before returning the cap to his head. He spares a glance over his shoulder at you, knowing you’re watching him. He sighs loudly as he continues to stock nearby shelves with boxes of cereal.
one - yoongi meets the new (never late) coworker.
two - the first time he says it out loud.
three {m} - maybe yoongi likes you a bit more than you thought. (ch1 pov shift)
four {m} - to celebrate yoongi’s first big break, you give him a proper treat.
five {m} - “hey, do you remember the first time i did this?”
The transition from best friends to best friends with benefits is never easy, especially when there’s a daddy kink involved.
Or, “You love to run your mouth, don’t you, baby girl?”
pairing: best friend!jungkook x reader
genre: uh best friend AU but really just an excuse for angsty smut
word count: 9k
warnings: smut, dirty talk, spanking, daddy kink sORRY, dom!jungkook, jungkook just being a little shit basically
A/N: YES OKAY THIS IS ONE OF MY FIRST FICS AND HAS NOT BEEN EDITED you have been warned!! this is based on the song Friends by Marshmello.
CHAPTERS: 01 | 02 | 03 (final)
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PART ONE
The opening and closing of the apartment door hardly registered in your mind, choosing instead to continue flipping through the latest issue of your Cosmo magazine. Sure, there was a slim chance that the person entering your home was an intruder with murderous intentions but given the hour you were more than certain the loud footsteps nearing your way belonged to your roommate arriving home from his trip to the gym.
“Ah, there she is! My favorite nun.” Jungkook’s voice rang out from behind you.
You huffed and said farewell to the article that was meant to tell you whether or not vajazzling was right for you as you shut the magazine entirely. You were sat upright on the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles comfortably.
“Can I fucking help you, Kook?” You asked, turning your head to look at your impolite roommate.
Genre: Best Friends To Lovers, Huddle of Warmth, Domestic!AU, Smut, Fluff
Warnings: Mega Fluff, Marking, Impregnation Kink, Thigh Slapping, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Possessive!Hoseok, Ab Worship, Fellatio, Face Fucking, Belly Bulge, Multiple Orgasms, Doggy Style, Spanking, Cream Pie
WordCount: 15k
A/N: Okay! MERRY EARLY CHRISTMAS! I’m super super lucky to have all of my darlings in one collab with me! Always a shoutout to my loves @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @xjoonchildx and @underthejoon for rooting me on always! Shout out to @hobi-gif for beta-ing it and literally helping me learn English lmfao. My other loves @snackhobi and @yeojaa rooted on the idea for this fic and helped me flesh things out and I’m so lucky I’m constantly surrounded by such amazing people!
Seasons for most people inspire and bring delight with every change of color on leaves in high up trees. Yet with you, you always hated all the seasons and everything they stood for. Until you met him. Or let him in anyway.
It sounds corny and ridiculous. It probably is.
People always deemed you cold hearted or uncaring and it was all true. But he brought love to your heart. He made colors brighter. He made the world seem bigger and better than you ever noticed before.
He was always around, even if you didn’t want him to be. You had some friends from childhood that insisted on keeping him around. He was kind and eager with everything that he did. And it annoyed the ever living crap out of you.
But you slowly opened up that iron cage around your heart and let him in. Even if it took him ages for you to let him in, he was determined.
Warnings: Soft Dom!Namjoon, Dirty Talk, Begging, Praise, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Joon Tiddie Worship (You Just Gotta), Huge Cock!Namjoon, Face Fucking, Spanking, Cum Swallowing, Unprotected Sex, Choking, Possessive!Namjoon, Degradation, Multiple Orgasms, Cream Pie
A/N: A really big thanks to my women @xjoonchildx, @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna for hyping me up as per usual and reading through it! The loves of my life! I hope you guys enjoy it!
Summer showers are usually delightful. There’s something incredible about sitting on your balcony with your roommate as you both sip wine and listen to the rain patter against the streets and your apartment building. You love the smell of the rain, the dark overcast that seems to highlight your roommates handsome features. And, above all you love the coziness that sets deep into your bones.
You should have been home two hours ago, listening to the rain with your braniac of a roommate and yet, you had gotten stuck at work for what felt like the fortieth time just this month.
You didn’t bring an umbrella to work, expecting to have been home before the rain began to barrage the Earth.
You didn’t bring a jacket because it was hotter than Hades outside and the humidity was eating you alive.
So here you are, drenched and disappointed that you missed out on a beautiful evening on the balcony.
Thunder crashes loudly, lightning highlighting the apartment door as it gets kicked open. Namjoon jumps loudly at the noise as the door knob slams into the wall.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck!?” he yells, putting his hand over his heart.
You glower at him as you enter the apartment, hair in tendrils as small droplets of water plop onto the white ground beneath you.
You've spent four years convincing yourself that your brother's best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there's no way that the golden boy of Seoul National's medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn't say them in that voice.
index | wc: 6.4k | explicit
↦author's note : And that's how it ends, folks! Started this thinking it would be a quick one-shot about a med student crush and somehow ended up writing an entire saga about trust, care, and finding someone who knows exactly what you need (even when you're too stubborn to admit it). Thanks for coming along for the ride—especially to everyone who's been here since that first couch scene. Special shoutout to my writing playlist that's now basically just "songs that remind me of these two idiots figuring out they're perfect for each other." I really debated on how to end this, because I like it as it is now, but also felt like it's not fully resolved. But at the same time, I feel sometimes actions speak louder than words and nothing can convey intimacy deeper than what these two just shared. Also gives me an excuse to write volume 2 if I ever feel like it. For now I'm closing this series like this, and feeling quite proud overall, because I have finally managed to finish a writing project. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. See you in the next story! ♥
You don’t realize you’re still crying until Hoseok gathers you into his arms.
Your body melts against him immediately—shaking, overwhelmed, wrecked beyond belief—but his arms wrap around you tight, pressing you against him, shielding you from the world, keeping you close.
You’re barely aware of movement, barely aware of anything but the warm press of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft rasp of his breath against your temple.
One arm hooks beneath your thighs, the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly.
You cling to him instinctively.
Arms curling around his neck.
Legs locking around his waist.
A desperate, unconscious attempt to keep him closer.
Hoseok hums against your skin, smoothing one palm up your spine, fingers tracing slow, steady circles between your shoulder blades.
"Shh, baby," he murmurs, lips pressing into your hairline. "I’ve got you."
Your throat shudders.
Your body is still trembling, pleasure still fluttering through your core, nerves still firing in the aftermath of everything he’s done to you.
And yet—
His hands keep soothing.
Warm, steady palms dragging down your back, up your ribs, over your arms, everywhere, mapping every inch of you with a softness that makes you ache.
"You did so well," he whispers, tilting his head to press a lingering kiss to your shoulder. "So well for me, Chip."
Your fingers fist into his shirt.
He hums, shifting you higher, cradling you closer, keeping you pressed against his chest as he moves.
The air changes.
Cool sheets brush against your bare skin.
And then—
Softness.
Your back meets the mattress, sinking into plush comfort as Hoseok lowers you, setting you down like you’re something fragile.
Like you’ll break if he lets go too fast.
Your breath shakes.
But his hands never leave you.
They stay—palming your waist, smoothing over your thighs, grounding you, soothing you as your body trembles in the aftermath.
Then—
A kiss.
Featherlight.
Pressed gently against your damp cheek.
You whimper.
Another kiss, placed just beneath your eye, tasting the remnants of your tears.
Then another.
And another.
Hoseok follows the path of your sobs—kissing them away, lips brushing over wet lashes, soft and slow, until every single tear is gone.
"You’re so beautiful when you cry for me," he murmurs.
Your chest tightens.
His lips move lower—pressing warm against the bridge of your nose, the tip of it, letting his breath fan over your face.
Another kiss.
Your forehead this time.
Slow. Lingering.
Like reverence.
Your fingers shake where they rest on his chest.
His voice dips to a whisper. "Such a sweet thing."
His lips brush yours.
Not taking. Not demanding.
Just there.
Waiting.
Soft. Warm.
Patient.
And then—
A kiss.
Gentle. Barely there.
Just the softest press of his lips to yours.
A breath, shared between you.
Your whole body shudders.
Hoseok smiles.
His fingers trace down your cheek, down your jaw, dragging slowly down the column of your throat.
"Rest a little, baby." A kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Then I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been begging for."
Your fingers fist into his shirt.
Weak. Trembling. Needy.
Hoseok stills above you, breath warm against your lips, his body heat pressing into yours.
Your throat burns.
Not from pain.
Not from exhaustion.
From want.
From him.
"Baby—" His voice is soft, careful, but you shake your head frantically.
"No." Your fingers tighten, pulling harder, tugging him closer. "Want now."
A slow inhale.
His head tilts, lips curling in quiet amusement.
"Do you?"
Your breath shudders.
"Yes," you sob, tilting your chin up, mouth chasing his. "Want you now, Hobi—"
A pause.
Then—
"Water first."
Your stomach plummets.
A whimper claws its way up your throat. "No—"
"Yes." His voice is firm, patient. "Water first, Chip."
Your lip trembles.
His thumb strokes along your cheek, soothing, warm. "I won’t fuck you if you pass out on me, baby."
Your stomach flips.
His voice is so gentle, so calm—like he isn’t fully clothed and hard as steel against your thigh, like he hasn’t spent the last hour dragging you through the most unbearable pleasure of your life.
But his eyes—
Oh, his eyes.
They gleam dark above you, swallowing you whole, already measuring, already planning.
You swallow thickly.
"Water," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Then I’ll give you what you need."
And fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You believe him.
You nod frantically.
Too eager.
Too obvious.
But you don’t care.
Because you want. Because your thighs are still trembling, your pulse still racing, your entire body still humming in the aftermath of—
Oh God.
That happened.
That really happened.
Your breath hiccups in your chest, a little wrecked, a little overwhelmed, but—
But you giggle.
You giggle, delirious and exhausted and gleeful, because—
You pulled this from him.
Hoseok.
Jung Hoseok.
Hoseok who wears neatly pressed scrubs and glasses and smiles politely when he enters a patient’s room. Hoseok whose hands are steady, whose voice is calm, whose expression is always gentle when he’s listening to someone’s symptoms.
Hoseok.
Who just spent the last hour tearing you apart.
You shudder.
The mattress shifts beneath you as he pulls away, and you whimper at the loss—weak, pathetic, needy—but he just presses one last, lingering kiss to your temple.
"Be good," he murmurs. "I’ll be right back."
Then he’s gone.
You blink.
Oh.
The warmth of him disappears, the sheets rustling as he rises from the bed. You barely catch a glimpse of his back—broad, steady, his white dress shirt still wrinkled from your hands on him—before he disappears down the hallway.
A glass of water.
Because he’s him. Because he still has to do things properly. Because he just spent an hour ruining you but God forbid he let you dehydrate.
A breathless little giggle bubbles up in your throat.
Your hands twitch against the sheets.
You stare at the ceiling, still hiccuping a little, still throbbing between your legs, and—
Oh, God.
Oh, fuck.
This happened.
You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms into the mattress, a quiet little thrill running up your spine.
You’re still here. Still in his bed.
Your fingertips draw tiny circles against the sheets.
A habit. A little nervous tic.
Your brain is spiraling, fast and sharp, flipping through everything at once—
(You came fifteen times. Fifteen.)
(You sobbed into his mouth, and he just laughed.)
(He made you squirt. You didn’t even know you could squirt, but of course—of course—Hoseok knew.)
A breathless little whimper slips from your throat.
And fuck, it should be embarrassing, it should be humiliating, but instead—
Instead—
Your fingers tighten in the sheets.
Because you like it.
Because it’s him.
Because he’s still Jung Hoseok, the perfectly put-together, golden-boy intern at SNUH, but he’s also—
He’s also this.
Not just gentle. Not just kind. Not just the careful, competent doctor your brother trusts, the one whose name gets murmured fondly in hospital hallways—
But this.
The man who dragged you through fifteen orgasms just because you lied to him.
The man who made you earn every single one.
The man who called you sweet while he broke you open.
Your thighs clench.
The distant sound of the faucet runs in the kitchen, steady and calm, like this is all normal, like this is just another part of his routine.
Like he didn’t just turn your body into his own personal science experiment.
You hiccup again.
Still lightheaded. Still soaked between your thighs.
But you giggle, dizzy and gleeful, tiny fingers still tracing circles into his sheets.
The bed dips beneath his weight.
Warm fingers press into your scalp, soft and soothing, stroking over your sweat-damp skin. A gentle pat, the kind meant for comfort, meant to steady you.
You shudder.
"Good girl," he murmurs.
The praise lands hot in your belly.
Your lashes are still wet, damp with the remnants of your overwhelmed sobs, but your fingers cling to the sheets as he presses the cool rim of a glass against your lips.
"Slow sips," he instructs.
You obey.
Your throat works, taking in the blessed relief of water, the cool liquid easing some of the rawness there. You swallow once, twice, lips parting around the rim, letting him tilt the glass just enough to let you drink properly.
His thumb brushes over your cheek.
"That’s it," he murmurs, voice soft, pleased.
Your fingers twitch.
When you’ve had enough, he pulls it away, placing it carefully on the nightstand, moving like he has all the time in the world, like he hasn’t left you bare and aching for him.
And then—
A rustle of fabric.
A shift of movement beside you.
Something warm and soft drapes over your shoulders, settling over your bare skin like a second layer. The scent of linen and faint cologne engulfs you, fresh but familiar, threaded through with the faintest trace of sweat.
You blink down at yourself, slow, disoriented.
It’s his shirt.
His white dress shirt, still warm from his body, sleeves too long, hem pooling at your thighs.
Your breath catches.
You hadn’t even noticed him unbuttoning it. Hadn’t registered the way his fingers had moved so easily, slipping it from his shoulders, rolling it off like it was nothing—like it wasn’t everything.
Your fingers lift, tentative, touching the fabric.
Hoseok just watches. Amused.
His head tilts, gaze dragging over you—soft now, lazy, pleased.
“Much better,” he muses.
His knuckles brush under your chin, tilting your face up. When he sees the look in your eyes—wide, hazy, still wrecked—his lips twitch.
A smirk.
And then, fingers slipping beneath the hem, brushing against your bare thighs—
“Now…” he murmurs, his palm flattening over your stomach, pressing just lightly.
“You’re covered, just like you wanted.”
The bed shifts as he moves, settling his weight beside you, one knee nudging between your thighs, parting them effortlessly.
“But since you seem to love my shirt so much…” His voice dips, smooth and teasing, hands already working the hem higher.
“I think I’ll fuck you in it.”
Your stomach flips.
You whimper, legs squeezing together, but—
Hoseok moves.
Not toward you.
Not immediately.
Instead, he shifts toward the nightstand.
Slow. Torturously slow.
Your breath catches.
He knows what he’s doing.
Of course he knows.
His movements are deliberate—each action drawn out, stretching the moment, letting you feel the weight of every second, every inch of distance between you.
Your fingers clench uselessly at the sheets.
He opens the drawer.
A pause.
His fingers rummage through—calm, methodical, as if he isn’t about to fuck you senseless, as if this isn’t the thing you’ve been begging for—
You whimper.
Hoseok smirks.
He takes his time, sifting through things that do not matter—his watch, a stray pen, his glasses case, something that isn’t a condom, because he’s cruel, because he likes this, because he likes making you squirm.
You do squirm, thighs pressing together, breath uneven, and—
Finally.
Finally, he pulls out a box.
The cardboard rustles between his fingers.
Your whole body locks.
The box is pristine, sharp edges, clearly unopened.
And yet—
The way he holds it.
The way he examines it, tilting it slightly in his grip, lips pursing slightly as if he’s considering something—
You hate him.
You hate him.
You whimper, shifting restlessly against the sheets, and—
Oh.
Oh, he loves this.
You can see it.
The way his mouth quirks at the corner. The way his tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek. The way his fingers drum lightly against the box before—
He flicks it open.
Your breath stops.
His fingers slip inside, slow, searching, before finally, finally—
He pulls one free.
Holds it between his index and middle finger.
And smirks.
The foil packet gleams in the dim light.
Your stomach flips.
Your fingers twitch.
But then—
Hoseok fixes his hair.
A casual, nonchalant movement.
Like this isn’t anything to him.
Like he’s not about to be balls-deep inside you for the first time.
Like this is just another part of his routine.
Your whole body shakes.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
The smirk lingers as he moves back to the bed, glass left forgotten on the nightstand.
And then—
He sits.
The bed dips.
Your whole body tenses.
Hoseok tilts his head.
"Wanna put it on me?"
His voice is smooth, just barely teasing, but underneath—underneath, there’s something else.
Something dark.
Something patient.
Something waiting.
Your breath hiccups.
You nod, fast, eager, wetness still clinging to your lashes.
Hoseok’s smirk deepens.
"Then go on, Chip."
He leans back on his hands, stretching out, voice dropping to a murmur—
"Earn it."
Your fingers fumble at his zipper, eager, shaky, desperate to get to him, to feel him, to finally have him the way you’ve been begging for.
Hoseok chuckles.
The sound is warm, soft, fond—which only makes your stomach twist harder, makes your fingers tremble worse.
"Easy, baby," he murmurs, his hand covering yours, stopping you before you can tug him free. "Need to take them off properly first."
Your face burns.
You whimper, shifting impatiently against the sheets, but he just smirks, brushing a lazy kiss over your forehead before standing up.
The loss of his warmth makes you ache.
You barely have time to mourn it before—
He starts undressing.
Your breath catches.
Hoseok moves unhurriedly, stretching out his elbows before reaching for his pants.
The button pops open.
The zipper glides down.
Your mouth dries.
You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving, pulse pounding, throbbing between your thighs as he shoves the slacks past his hips, letting them pool at his feet.
Then his briefs.
He hooks his thumbs under the waistband, pushing them down, and—
Fuck.
Your lips part.
Hoseok is…
Big.
You knew that.
You knew.
You remember the struggle of fitting him in your mouth, the way he barely fit past your lips, the way you had to work to take him.
But seeing him like this?
All of him?
Eight thick, aching inches, flushed and leaking, the veins pulsing up his length, the sheer size of him standing rigid against his stomach—
Your throat closes.
Hoseok notices.
Of course he notices.
The corner of his mouth quirks, amusement curling through his gaze as he reaches down—
And caresses your lower lip with his thumb.
Your breath shudders.
Your tongue peeks out instinctively, barely brushing his fingertip, and his smirk deepens.
"So eager," he murmurs, thumb pressing down just slightly, making you feel the weight of it. "Didn’t even wait for me to sit back down."
Your face burns.
Hoseok just chuckles.
The warmth of his touch disappears as he moves, settling himself back onto the bed, stretching out—legs wide, arms resting loosely at his sides, body completely bare for you now.
Then—
He raises the condom between his fingers.
A silent invitation.
Your stomach flips.
You reach for it, still breathless, still shaking slightly, but when you try to tear it open—
Clumsy.
Fumbling.
Your fingers don’t quite grip the foil properly, slipping against the edge, failing to find the right angle, struggling with something that should be so simple—
Hoseok doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t tease.
Doesn’t smirk.
Just… watches.
Quiet. Patient.
His gaze is soft, steady, waiting.
You feel it.
Feel the weight of his attention, feel the way he’s watching you, not mocking, not correcting—just looking at you.
And for some reason—
That’s worse.
Your fingers tremble harder.
You glance up, cheeks burning, lips parting before you can stop yourself—
"Stop looking at me."
Hoseok grins.
Slow. Amused.
Like he expected that.
Like he knew you’d say it.
But he doesn’t stop looking.
Just tilts his head.
"Can’t."
Your fingers pause, the condom still clutched in your grip, and you glance up at him—confused, breathless, waiting.
He’s still watching you.
Still looking.
Still letting you feel the weight of his gaze, unshaken, unbothered—completely at ease while you sit there, bare and flustered and desperate for him.
Your pulse skitters.
Then—
He smirks.
"You’re doing it again."
Your brows knit. "What—"
"Your cheeks."
Your breath catches.
He leans in, voice dropping lower, softer, teasing.
"Like a chipmunk."
Your entire body locks up.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Your chest tightens.
Because—
Because that’s—
The first time.
The first time he called you that. The first time he marked you, the first time he turned something innocent into something that belonged to him.
The first time you became Chip.
Your heart races.
Something deep inside you thrums, something unbearably warm, unbearably good, something that snaps—
You kiss him.
Your hands shoot up instinctively, grasping at his jaw, your lips pressing to his without thinking, without waiting, without hesitation.
Hoseok freezes.
Just for a second.
Just for a breath.
Just long enough for you to panic, for your stomach to twist, for you to think—oh, fuck, I shouldn’t have done that—
Then he responds.
His lips move.
He kisses you back.
Slow. Steady. Measured.
But warm.
So warm.
So good.
Your whole body melts, pressing closer, needing more, fingers still tangled in his neck as you sigh against his mouth.
Hoseok chuckles.
Soft. Fond.
"Sweet thing," he murmurs against your lips.
You whimper, pressing deeper, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you cling to him, lets you pour yourself into the kiss until your lungs burn, until you’re gasping, until you remember—
The condom.
Your breath shudders.
You pull back, fingers clumsy as you tear the foil open, still shaky, still breathless from the kiss, and—
Hoseok just watches.
Smirking. Amused.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He just lets you try.
You slide it over him carefully, hands unsteady, still wide-eyed at the sheer size of him, still feeling the way your pulse thuds at the sight.
He’s…
He’s huge.
You knew that. You remember that.
But now—
Now you’re about to—
Your breath hiccups.
You shift onto your knees, thighs spreading as you move to straddle him, hovering just above him, body trembling, still dizzy, still soaked from everything he’s done to you—
And he still lets you try.
But then—
The moment your fingers press against his chest, the moment you try to steady yourself, the moment your thighs trembleas you hover—
His hands clamp down on your waist.
"Woah, Chip—"
A sharp exhale, his fingers firm, steadying you in place, holding you still before you can sink down too fast, before you can hurt yourself.
"Steady."
Your heart races.
His grip tightens slightly, thumbs smoothing over your ribs, keeping you held, keeping you anchored as he looks up at you.
His voice is lower now. Softer.
"Baby," he murmurs, something warm curling behind his words. "You have to take your time."
His hands slide up your sides, palms warm over bare skin, smoothing over the fabric of his dress shirt where it hangs loose around you. The sleeves slip lower as he adjusts his grip, dragging the soft cotton against your ribs, against your overheated skin.
Your thighs shake.
Hoseok smirks, eyes glinting.
"You think you can take me just like that?"
Your breath shudders.
Because—
Because no.
Not really.
Not all at once.
He’s too big. You know that.
But you’re—
You want it so bad.
You’re so ready.
You need it.
You shift slightly, pressing down just a little, feeling the head of him brush against your soaked entrance, and—
Hoseok groans.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tightening, controlling the movement before you can force it, before you can rush it, before you can hurt yourself trying to take something that isn’t meant to be taken fast.
"Slow, baby," he murmurs, voice thicker, deeper.
You whimper.
Hoseok’s grip softens slightly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin.
"Let me help."
You nod frantically, fingers gripping at the open lapels of his shirt, still draped over your frame. The movement makes the fabric shift, slipping off one shoulder, baring more of your skin beneath his touch.
You feel desperate. Breathless.
And then—
Hoseok smiles.
Slow.
Dark.
Steady.
Then he guides you down.
Your breath shatters.
The first inch stings.
Not painful—not quite—but tight, an ache so deep and slow it makes your thighs tremble.
Hoseok feels it.
Of course he does.
His grip tightens, fingers firm at your waist, holding you still, keeping you from taking too much, keeping you from sinking down too fast.
"Easy, baby," he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
Because—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
This—
This is so much.
He’s thick, stretching you in a way that makes your walls clamp down, muscles fluttering, your body trying to pull him in while also fighting to accommodate him.
You whimper.
Hoseok hums, pleased.
His hands soothe over your waist, warm palms stroking up your sides, dragging slow, steady circles over your skin.
"That’s it," he murmurs, voice gentle, but the words still send something dark curling through your stomach. "Just like that, Chip."
His thumbs stroke slow circles into your waist, fingertips grazing over the smooth cotton hanging open around you.
The fabric barely clings to your body now, slipping further apart with every movement.
Your walls pulse.
Hoseok notices.
His smirk deepens.
His fingers tighten slightly, just enough to hold you down, just enough to keep you where he wants you—halfway, stretched around the thickest part of him, not moving, just feeling.
And then—
His mouth is on you.
Your breath shudders.
Soft, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder.
His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin, and you whimper, shifting slightly—
His fingers dig in.
"Stay still."
Your whole body locks up.
Your walls clench around him at the command, and he groans, deep in his chest, head tilting back for just a second before he regains control.
Then his mouth finds you again.
Lower.
Lips brushing against the tops of your breasts, warm and wet, tongue flicking over sweat-damp skin.
"You feel so good, baby."
A kiss over your sternum.
"So tight around me."
Another over your clavicle.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, hips twitching, but he doesn’t let you move.
"Shh," he soothes, voice low, patient, mocking.
His tongue flicks over your nipple.
The loose fabric shifts with the motion, dragging over your ribs, brushing against your stomach—just another sensation layered over the unbearable stretch of him inside you.
Your whole body jerks.
"Hoseok—"
"Dr. Jung," he corrects, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, sucking slow, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world—
And he does.
Because he’s keeping you still.
Because you can’t move.
Because he won’t let you move until he decides you can.
Your walls flutter, squeezing tight around the thick, unmoving length of him, and he moans, breath hot against your skin.
His hands soften at your waist, but only slightly.
Still firm.
Still controlling you.
His lips drag lower, tongue swiping over the curve of your breast, down the center of your ribs, kissing, licking, letting the wet heat of his mouth distract you from the pressure, from the way he’s still so deep inside you, still so thick, still holding you exactly where he wants you.
"Tell me how it feels," he murmurs, lips pressing just above your belly button.
His fingers trace absent shapes against your waist, brushing over where the shirt is still barely covering you, ghosting over the open hem.
He exhales, amused, eyes flicking up as he tugs at the fabric, letting it fall further apart.
Your breath stutters.
You’re so full.
So stretched.
It’s too much—but it’s not enough.
You need more.
Your thighs tremble. "Big."
Hoseok chuckles.
Low. Deep.
He likes that.
His tongue flicks against your skin, a soft hum vibrating through his chest as his hands knead over your waist.
"That’s right," he murmurs.
His thumbs tilt your hips, adjusting you slightly, just enough to make the pressure shift, make the stretch deeper, make you feel him more.
You whimper.
Hoseok groans.
Then—
"Take the rest, baby."
And his hands push you down.
Your breath shatters.
The last few inches burn, your walls stretching around him, struggling to take him, struggling to make room for the sheer size of him, and—
Oh, fuck.
Your head falls back.
Your entire body clenches, every muscle tight, your thighs trembling where they frame his waist, your breath coming fast, uneven, struggling to process just how deep he is.
Hoseok groans.
Low. Guttural.
A sound that comes from deep in his chest, vibrating against your ribs, making your walls clamp down around him in helpless, pulsing flutters.
"Fuck, Chip."
Your nails dig into his shoulders. "H-Hoseok—"
"Dr. Jung," he corrects again, but his voice wavers this time, mouth parting on a sharp inhale as his fingers tighten at your waist.
Because you’re squeezing him.
Because you’re so tight.
Because he can feel your walls still trying to adjust, still struggling to accommodate him, still fluttering, still soaked from everything he’s done to you—
And fuck.
Fuck, you knew he was big.
You knew.
But this—
This is too much.
Too deep, too thick, pressing against something inside you that makes your entire body tremble.
Your voice is wrecked. "I—I c-can’t—"
"Shh."
Hoseok’s fingers slide higher, smoothing up your spine, pressing into the knots of tension there, keeping you anchoredagainst him.
He leans up slightly, mouth ghosting over your shoulder, lips brushing soft against damp skin.
"Relax, baby." A warm kiss to the base of your throat. "Let me stretch you out."
Your pulse skitters.
His hands stay at your waist, holding you still, keeping you down, keeping you full.
And then—
His mouth moves.
Hot lips press against your clavicle.
Then lower.
Then lower.
Then—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
His tongue swirls around your nipple.
Your breath hiccups.
A sharp little jolt of pleasure spikes through your stomach, the contrast overwhelming—the deep, aching stretch of him inside you paired with the gentle, teasing flicks of his tongue against your skin.
You writhe. "H-Hobi—"
His teeth scrape lightly, lips sucking, slow, measured.
"You’re doing so well," he murmurs against your skin, voice low, warm. "So tight around me."
A sharp exhale against your breast, warm and teasing.
"Like you were made to take me, baby."
Your walls pulse.
Hoseok groans, dragging his lips back up your throat, sucking lightly at your pulse.
"Just a little more."
Your stomach flutters.
His fingers press into your hips, keeping you down, keeping you still, making you feel every inch, every stretch, every impossible, aching depth of him—
And then—
You feel it.
The moment your body gives in.
Your walls accommodate him, adjust, mold around his thickness, taking him completely, letting him settle inside you—
And Hoseok feels it too.
A sharp inhale.
His fingers twitch against your waist.
Then—
A low, wrecked "fuck."
Your breath shudders.
You feel the weight of him, feel the stretch, feel the deep, unbearable fullness of being seated fully on his cock.
It’s—
It’s so much.
But also—
It’s so good.
You exhale shakily, fingers trembling where they rest on his chest.
Hoseok’s lips press into your temple, soft, grounding.
His voice dips lower, quieter.
"You okay, baby?"
You nod frantically.
Because—
Because yes.
Because you’re so full, but you don’t want to move.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not when it feels like this.
Hoseok smiles.
"That’s my girl."
Then—
His fingers tighten.
"Now," he murmurs, smirk pressing into your jaw, "stay still while I ruin you."
His hands slide up your sides again, slow, deliberate, palms pushing the shirt further open, exposing more of your body to his touch. But he doesn’t pull it off. Doesn’t let you be fully bare. He keeps you like this—half-dressed, swallowed in his shirt, draped in his fabric—while he sinks deeper inside you.
Your breath catches.
Because you believe him.
Because he’s still so deep, still so thick inside you, and you can feel the way your walls flutter around him, feel the way your body is trying to adjust but still clenching down, still so tight, still not used to him yet.
And yet—
His fingers tighten at your waist.
And then—
He moves.
The first drag is slow.
Not a thrust, not a pull, not a sharp snap of his hips—just a shift, a deep, rolling movement, barely anything at all—
But you feel it everywhere.
Your walls clench at the stretch, the drag, at the way his cock pulls against every sensitive spot inside you before pressing back in again, seating himself fully inside you again, making sure you stay full, making sure you stay stretched around him.
Your whimper is shattered.
"Oh my god—"
Hoseok groans.
His hands hold you down, keeping you trapped in his lap, forcing you to take it, forcing you to sit with it, forcing you to feel every single inch of him as he rocks into you.
"Good girl," he praises, voice warm, deep, slipping into your hair as his lips press against your temple. "Taking me so well."
Your whole body trembles.
His hands move up your back, palms flat, warm, steady, keeping you anchored against his chest.
Then—
Another slow thrust.
Deeper this time.
The drag of him burns, the stretch still so tight, but it feels good, feels like something your body is learning, something it’s adjusting to, something it’s craving now.
You writhe. "Hobi—"
"Dr. Jung," he corrects, lips dragging down the side of your throat, voice thick, teasing, mocking, and your walls clencharound him at the sound—
He feels it.
Of course he does.
He groans, grip flexing at your hips, fingers pressing harder, making you sink onto him, making sure you stay stuffed full of him.
"Fuck," he murmurs against your skin. "This tight little cunt." His teeth scrape against your jaw, breath hot against your ear. "Gripping me so well."
Your hips jerk.
A sharp little movement—too fast, too eager, your body trying to chase the friction, trying to take more—
Hoseok stills you immediately.
His grip tightens.
His fingers dig in.
He stops you completely.
Your breath shudders. "H-Hoseok—"
He exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Then—
"Don’t rush me, baby."
Your stomach flips.
Because—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You thought he was taking it slow for you.
Thought he was helping you adjust.
But—
But that’s not it, is it?
Hoseok is pacing himself.
For himself.
Because he’s still in control.
Because he’s still making you wait, still making you suffer, still teaching you what it means to take him properly.
Your thighs tremble.
You whimper, voice small, and—
Hoseok groans, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, fingers massaging at your hips.
Then—
He moves again.
Slow.
Measured.
Deep.
Rocking you into it.
Letting you feel it.
Letting you drown in it.
And fuck, you do.
The next roll of his hips is sharper.
It drags something new out of you—something sweet, something helpless, something hot that makes your fingers clenchinto his shoulders, makes your walls pulse around him in a way that makes him groan.
"There it is," Hoseok murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. "That's my girl."
Your stomach flips.
Because—
Oh.
Oh, you love this.
You love how good he is, how skilled he is, how precise he is with every movement. You love the way he’s picking up the pace now, the way his hips are guiding you into it, the way he’s still holding you still while he moves, making you take it.
You whimper.
Hoseok hums.
"So cute," he murmurs, voice thick, teasing, lips pressing softly to the corner of your mouth. "So eager for me."
Your walls clench down at the praise, and he groans, feels it, lets his hands tighten at your hips.
"H-Hoseok—"
"Dr. Jung," he corrects again, but this time—
This time, he smirks when he says it.
Your cheeks burn.
Because you know what he’s doing.
And he knows you love it.
His hands shift—one slipping from your hip to cup the back of your neck, holding you close, keeping you right there, breath mingling, bodies melded together.
Then—
He thrusts up.
You gasp, eyes going wide, mouth parting, and—
Hoseok laughs.
"That’s it, baby," he exhales, delighted, shifting his grip at your waist, holding you down now, keeping you in place while he moves.
He picks up his pace, guiding you into deep, steady rolls, each one pressing him harder into that spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.
Your head falls forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, and you whimper, overwhelmed, breath catching with every movement.
Hoseok groans, his lips pressing to the top of your head, voice warm, fond.
"You’re so sweet like this."
Another snap of his hips, and you wail.
His fingers splay over your back, holding you there, keeping you wrapped around him.
"So pretty when you take me so well," he murmurs, voice soothing even as he fucks you deeper, even as he makes you writhe.
Your thighs are shaking, your whole body melting into his hands, and Hoseok just smiles.
"Good girl," he breathes, kissing your temple. "You love this, don’t you?"
You nod frantically, breath hiccupping out of you, and he laughs, pleased, his hips rolling harder, making you feel it, making you understand how good he is.
"You love me taking care of you, don’t you, baby?" His fingers press into your waist, shifting you just right against him. "Love being my good girl?"
Your moan is wrecked, and he groans, pressing his lips softly to your cheek, voice warm, teasing.
"Such a sweet thing."
And then—
He really starts fucking you.
Hoseok moves before you can even process it.
One moment, you’re wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, gasping into his mouth—
The next, your back is hitting the mattress.
Your breath shatters.
He never leaves you.
Never disconnects.
His arms stay wrapped around you, his cock still seated deep inside you as he shifts, as he sprawls you out beneath him, as he spreads you wide across his sheets.
You whimper. "H-Hoseok—"
"Dr. Jung," he murmurs, voice dark, teasing, breath hot against your throat.
His fingers slide up your arms, pushing the fabric of the sleeves further back, exposing more skin.
The movement pulls the shirt even wider open, leaving it hanging loosely around your frame, framing the wrecked state of your body beneath him.
Then—
He thrusts.
Hard.
Deep.
Your head tilts back, a wrecked moan spilling from your lips, and—
He pins you down.
His hands grab your wrists, pressing them above your head, keeping them trapped against the pillows.
Then—
His other hand slides down.
Down your waist.
Down your thigh.
And then—
He presses it down.
His palm flattens against the inside of your thigh, forcing it against the mattress, spreading you wider, opening you up even more for him.
The shirt slips further apart with the movement, fabric barely clinging to your shoulders, gaping open, leaving you completely at his mercy.
Your moan is shattered.
You can’t move.
You can’t do anything.
He has you pinned, held open, fucked into the mattress.
And then—
He starts moving.
Deep.
Fast.
Sharp.
His hips slam into you, cock driving into that spot inside you that makes your whole body lock up, makes your walls clench around him, makes your thighs tremble against his sheets.
"Oh my god—"
Hoseok groans.
"You can take it, baby," he murmurs, voice thick, his fingers tight around your wrists, his hand pressing your thigh flat against the bed.
His hips snap into you, faster, harder, and you wail, body helpless beneath him, body opening for him, body taking everything he gives you.
"That’s it," he breathes, voice soothing, lips brushing over your jaw. "Take it, baby."
Your whole body writhes.
His fingers tighten at your wrists, his hand firm at your thigh, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
Then—
A soft kiss to your cheek.
"You feel so good like this," he murmurs, voice warm, like he isn’t currently fucking you into the mattress, like he isn’t making you take it so deep you’re practically seeing stars.
"So sweet for me," he breathes, lips dragging down your neck, tongue flicking against your pulse. "Such a good girl, letting me ruin you."
The weight of his body presses you into the mattress, the soft linen of his shirt bunching beneath you, trapping heat between your bodies.
The scent of him lingers in the fabric, surrounding you, filling every breath as he fucks you deeper.
Your moan is wrecked.
And Hoseok just smiles.
Then—
He snaps his hips even faster.
The pleasure builds too fast.
Too deep, too sharp, too much at once.
He’s fucking you open, pace relentless, cock slamming into that spot inside you over and over and over—
And your body can’t fight it.
Your thighs shake.
Your back arches.
Your walls clench down so tight around him that he groans, deep and wrecked, his grip bruising at your wrists, his hand pressing your thigh, keeping you trapped beneath him.
"H-Hoseok—"
"I know, baby," he pants, voice low, thick, his lips dragging over your jaw. "I know."
And then—
You break.
Your orgasm tears through you, a white-hot detonation that rips a shattered wail from your throat, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down on him, your thighs trembling.
But it doesn’t stop.
Your body keeps going.
The pleasure keeps pulsing, keeps cresting, one wave crashing into the next, your walls still fluttering, still milking his cock, still wringing him out—
And it destroys him.
Hoseok groans, voice breaking, hips jerking, pace turning erratic, messy, as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the unbearable tightness of you, the way your body won’t stop squeezing him.
The sweat-slick fabric sticks between you, damp at your lower back where the shirt has ridden up with the intensity of his thrusts.
But he barely notices—too focused on fucking you apart, on making sure you take everything, on keeping you wrapped in him.
"Fucking hell—"
His grip tightens on your hands while he spreads your legs wider, letting him drive in even deeper, harder, rutting into you with sharp, needy thrusts.
Your breath splinters.
Your back arches.
And then—
He curses, voice wrecked, pace losing rhythm completely, his body shuddering as he slams into you one last time—
And spills inside you.
His groan is low, broken, forehead dropping against your shoulder, muscles tensing as his cock pulses, warmth flooding deep inside the condom.
His breath hiccups against your skin.
Your walls flutter around him, aftershocks still shuddering through you, body still milking him, pleasure still lingering.
A beat.
A slow, heavy inhale.
Then—
His grip on your wrists loosens.
His hand on your thigh softens.
And then—
Hoseok laughs, breathless, voice low, wrecked.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Chip," he murmurs, exhaling shakily against your cheek. "You're gonna kill me."
Hoseok doesn’t move at first.
Just stays inside you, buried deep, forehead pressed against your shoulder, chest rising and falling steadily against yours.
His breath is warm against your skin, soft little exhales against the slope of your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you close.
Then—
A deep, satisfied hum.
"You’re trembling, baby."
His voice is thick, smooth and soothing, and—
Oh.
Oh, you are.
Your whole body is shaking, weak and wrecked, nerves still firing from overstimulation, muscles useless beneath the weight of him.
Hoseok smiles against your skin.
"So precious."
Your face burns. "Shut up—"
But the words slur together—breathless, wrecked, voice barely functional—and Hoseok chuckles, amused, because—
Oh, he loves this.
Loves seeing you like this.
Loves knowing he’s the reason for it.
His lips press to your temple.
"Think you can move, sweetheart?"
You try, but the oversized fabric shifts against your skin, a reminder of how wrecked you are beneath it, how ruined you are in his clothes, how you’re still wrapped in him even now.
Your breath hiccups.
You try to shift, try to sit up, try to do anything—
And fail completely.
Your limbs don’t respond.
Your legs feel like lead.
Your thighs twitch, weak and useless, and you whimper, realizing you are—
Entirely.
Completely.
Boneless.
Hoseok grins.
"That’s what I thought."
Hoseok exhales, shifting above you, and the movement drags the loose cotton against your overheated skin, the open edges brushing against your ribs as he adjusts his grip.
His eyes flicker down, taking in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, drowning in the fabric of his own damn shirt—and something dark glints in his gaze.
His arms tighten around you—secure, steady—before he moves, rolling both of you until your back meets the mattress and he’s hovering above you, still inside, still deep, still making you feel the stretch of him.
Your breath catches.
His smirk widens.
"So cute," he murmurs, voice low, hands smoothing down your waist, fingers tracing over every twitching muscle, everywhere he’s left his mark on you.
Then—
"We’re gonna shower."
You barely process the words, too dazed, too sensitive, but then—his hands are on you again.
Slow, steady, smoothing down your thighs, adjusting the way his shirt still drapes over your body, as if debating whether to peel it off or leave you in it a little longer.
You whimper at the thought—warm water, his hands on you, his help—and the way he says it makes something deep in your stomach curl.
Because—
It’s not a suggestion.
It’s a decision.
A statement.
Like it’s already happening.
Like he’s already made up his mind.
And you—
You love it.
You love that he’s still taking care of you, still controlling the situation, still making sure you’re okay.
His smirk is slow. Amused.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, fingers tracing over the loose fabric where it pools at your waist.
Your stomach flips.
“Hobi—”
“Dr. Jung,” he corrects easily, shifting back, peeling himself away from you—but not before tugging the shirt closed over your chest, fastening one single button near your collarbone.
Just enough to cover you.
Just enough to keep you in it.
Just enough to remind you exactly who you belong to.
You hum in response, lips parting—
But then—
A thought.
A very bad thought.
"Oh, shit—" Your voice is hoarse, throat still raw from moaning his name, but you panic, trying to move, trying to reach for your phone, trying to—
"Caleb—"
Hoseok snorts.
His fingers press into your waist, holding you down, keeping you still, making you look at him.
His smirk is lazy, amused.
"Already handled, baby."
Your stomach drops.
You blink. "What—"
He reaches for his phone, showing you the text thread with your brother from hours ago:
"You..." You stare at him. "You planned this? Before—"
"No. I texted him after I gave you the 20 minute warning." His thumb traces your lip. "Before that, I called in a favor from one of the nurses that know Kiara. Managed to get out early as soon as I knew you were drunk in that club. Got there, saw you; texted you."
"But you were mad. You blocked me—"
"I was." He kisses your temple. "Still am. But I was worried. Couldn’t help keeping an eye on you. And I wasn't letting you go home with that intern."
Your heart flutters. Because this is peak Hoseok—calculating every detail, ten steps ahead, making sure you're taken care of even when he's furious with you.
"How did you know I'd—"
"Misbehave?" His laugh is soft. "Because I know you, Chip. Know exactly how to make you chase what you want."
You should be annoyed at his confidence. Instead, you're melting further into his sheets.
"Now." He finally slips out of you, making you whine at the loss. "Shower. Then sleep. You have approximately—" He checks his watch. "—fourteen hours before you need to be at Kiara’s for brunch."
You blink. "What?"
"She's covering for us." He lifts you effortlessly. "Telling Caleb you crashed there after drinking. You'll show up tomorrow, properly hungover, full of stories about girls' night."
Your head spins. "You arranged all that while driving?"
"While fingering you, actually. In the elevator." His smile is smug. "Multitasking is a valuable skill in medicine."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." He carries you to the bathroom. "You love that I think of everything."
⤷⁎𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: “Four years of yearning, two years of psychological games, and some medications have side effects—yours is falling for your brother's best friend."
⤷⁎𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: medical romance, slow burn, psychological tension, brothers best friend, age gap (4 years), medical student x resident
⤷⁎𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: here
⤷⁎𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: hoseok x reader
⤷⁎𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓈: completed| 𝓌𝒸: 40k | 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: 11/11
⤷⁎𝓆𝓊𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈: ao3 | wattpad | taglist
"You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice."
∘₊✧ drabbles ✧₊∘
[...] to come
∘₊✧ extras ✧₊∘
☆ playlists: • off-labels - the soundtrack ☆ moodboards
☆ d͎i͎s͎c͎l͎a͎i͎m͎e͎r͎ ☆ please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.
⤷⁎𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: “Four years of yearning, two years of psychological games, and some medications have side effects—yours is falling for your brother's best friend."
⤷⁎𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: medical romance, slow burn, psychological tension, brothers best friend, age gap (4 years), medical student x resident
⤷⁎𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: here
⤷⁎𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: hoseok x reader
⤷⁎𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓈: completed| 𝓌𝒸: 40k | 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: 11/11
⤷⁎𝓆𝓊𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈: ao3 | wattpad | taglist
"You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice."
∘₊✧ drabbles ✧₊∘
[...] to come
∘₊✧ extras ✧₊∘
☆ playlists: • off-labels - the soundtrack ☆ moodboards
☆ d͎i͎s͎c͎l͎a͎i͎m͎e͎r͎ ☆ please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.
Summary: After months of quietly pinning after Jung Hoseok, your friends decide to give you a little push. Sometimes a New Years Eve party and a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven is all it takes.
Pairing: Jung Hoseok x f!reader
Genre: Fluff, angst, sexual content, minors keep out!
Warnings: Non idol au; tattooed!hobi, tattoo artist hobi; Dom!Hobi. Lots of smut.
Summary: Starting your second semester at one of South Korea’s most prestigious universities should be stressful enough. Between juggling classes, good grades and a social life, your plate was full. Hoping to spice up your academic career, you thought it was a good idea to enroll as an assistant for your literature professor, whom you've held a very secret and very forbidden crush on for the past several months. What will happen now that you’re forced to work closely together? And what if your crush isn’t as one sided as you thought?
Genre: Series, fluff, angst, smut, non idol au, university au.
Warnings: This series is part of the Hyung Line Daddy Collection. Mild age gap (not underage) where Yoongi is in his early thirties and Yn is in her early twenties, power play, since he is her professor, but it’s not toxic or abusive and Yoongi doesn’t take advantage of his position, daddy kink (eventually). Forbidden relationship. Cousin Jungkook, Best Friend Jimin (what is new), art student Tae, literature student reader and Namjoon. Side pairing: ?? and ??. This series has a LOT of smut, in almost every chapter.
genre: street racing au, rivals to lovers, slow burn
summary: they call you ghost. you call him sunshine. you’re gasoline and gold. he’s grit and fire. you meet where engines snarl and neon flickers, where flirting tastes like violence and victory smells like smoke. no one really wins here. not without bleeding for it. but god, you both keep trying.
warnings: street racing, competition kink, jealousy, fighting, bloodly knuckles, a little toxic, a lot feral, they hate how bad they want each other, rough sex, public sex, backseat sex, oral f!recieving, fingering, light choking, impact play, possessive/obsessive behavior, overstimulation, creampie, masturbation m & f, mentions of marijuana
word count: 7,708
The first time Hoseok sees you, it’s from across the lot. Hip cocked against your matte black Nissan Silvia like the car’s just another extension of your body. You’re licking sugar off your thumb from a ring pop someone must’ve handed you, but your eyes are scanning.
It’s just past midnight, and the air is thick with the smell of gasoline, rubber, cigarette smoke, and basslines that bleed through every inch of the abandoned lot. Overhead, floodlights cast uneven pools of white across cracked concrete and slick car hoods.
The low thrum of engines pulses like a heartbeat beneath it all.
You’re parked under the far end of a rusted awning, half in shadow, half caught in the neon pink light of a food truck sign blinking behind you. It flickers once, twice, and then steadies, framing you in electric haze like something out of a dream.
Or a warning.
Your eyes trail from hood to hood, driver to driver, pausing for no one. He can tell you’re not looking to be seen. You’re looking for a challenge.
But you’re not racing tonight.
You’re just watching.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
You’re not burning rubber or taking corners. Not running the line or coasting the edge. You’re simply there, standing still, and somehow more dangerous than anyone strapped behind a wheel.
He drags his gaze away with effort and exhales through his nose. He palms a lighter from his pocket and flicks it once, twice, like muscle memory, but doesn’t light the cigarette already tucked behind his ear. His other hand slides across the warm metal of his hood.
“Who’s she?” he murmurs without turning, voice low and rough, seeking answers from the man beside him.
Jin’s half buried in the guts of his RX-7, elbows deep in a cluster of wires, his headset crackling with ghost voices from the other side of the lot. He doesn’t look up—just keeps tightening something near the throttle body with slow, methodical precision.
“New,” Jin replies evenly. “Name’s still floatin’. Crewless. Roams around. Races once in a while, just enough to stay myth. Keeps her win ratio clean, though. Never seen her lose.”
Hoseok hums, eyes drifting back to you. Your ring pop’s gone now, sucked down to the stem, and you’re wiping your fingers on the hem of your shirt. The way your mouth curves has an edge to it, like you’re already in on the joke before the punchline lands.
“Her real name?”
“No one knows,” Jin replies. “She’s got half the lot calling her Ghost.”
“Ghost…why?”
At that, Jin straightens. Rolls his neck until it pops, then finally looks up, glancing past Hoseok toward the spot you’ve claimed as your own.
His mouth curls into a knowing smirk.
“’Cause she’ll flirt. She’ll touch. She’ll smile—and then she’s gone.” He shrugs, wiping his hands on a rag before slinging it over his shoulder. “Leaves behind smoke, tire marks, and half a dozen sorry bastards wondering what the fuck just happened.”
Hoseok scoffs under his breath but doesn’t deny how easily the image forms in his mind. You in the rearview, tail lights blinking once before disappearing completely. The Sylvia’s engine roaring like thunder as it kisses the apex.
“She’s bad news. Which means—” Jin glances sideways, arching a brow, “—you’re probably already interested.”
Hoseok doesn’t answer.
Because right then, you glance over.
You don’t soften, don’t blink, don’t tilt your head like the others do when they want to be noticed. You just look, like you’ve already seen everything you need to know.
And then you smile.
It’s the kind of smile that unravels men. The kind that makes you feel like you’re already too late.
Something behind Hoseok’s ribs shifts.
You hold his gaze for three long seconds. Then you turn away and vanish into the swell of bodies and smoke like you were never there.
Like a ghost.
Weeks pass.
And He tells himself he doesn’t care.
He tells himself this while tuning his suspension, while torching the city streets at 3AM just to burn off the static under his skin. He tells himself this while tightening the gloves around his fingers and sliding behind the wheel like he has something to prove.
You only show up when you want to.
No rhythm, no schedule.
Some nights you’re nowhere, just whispers trailing in your place. Other nights, you materialize out of the shadows like you’d never left, sliding between crews and chaos with that same unreadable calm.
He tells himself it doesn’t bother him. That he doesn’t scan the crowd every time he pulls up. That he doesn’t hold his breath when an engine too slick, too smooth, too you rumbles in the distance.
He tells himself you’re a ghost, and ghosts don’t matter.
But ghosts don’t win.
And you never lose.
Even when you’re behind—especially when you’re behind.
You race like you’re chasing something only you can see. Like speed isn’t a tool, it’s a language. Like you were born to bend gravity and defy timing. You don’t race to prove something.
You race to remind people.
And that engine of yours? It sounds like a war cry. Hoseok hears it before he sees you. A guttural snarl that splits the night like thunder and leaves people craning their necks to see who’s behind the wheel.
It’s always you.
And you always make it look easy.
Your car floats through corners like it’s skimming the edge of a dream. Hoseok’s seen seasoned racers white knuckled and breathless trying to keep up with you. And when you finally do step out of the car, there’s always a smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. Like the win was nothing more than a flex of your fingers.
Your nails are always painted metallic gold.
That’s something he noticed early, before he let himself admit he was noticing anything at all. It’s not even a shade people wear, but you wear it like it’s tradition. Like trophies dipped in lacquer. Like each coat is another body you’ve buried beneath your tires.
You’re not touchy. Not soft. You never let a man get close, never long enough for it to mean anything. If someone’s lucky, they might get to light your blunt. If they’re brave, they might try a joke, a brush of fingers, a lean too close.
They never get far.
You laugh it off. You twist out of it. You vanish.
And your laugh, fuck, your laugh. It drips from your lips like honey over broken glass. The kind of laugh that makes men want to try harder just to hear it again.
He’s only heard it a handful of times, always from a distance, but it lingers in his head longer than the echo of his engine.
Longer than any finish line. Longer than any cheer.
Some nights, it follows him home. He’ll be washing grease off his hands in his kitchen sink or leaning against his balcony railing while the city drones below, and it hits him.
He doesn’t even know what your mouth tastes like.
He tells himself he doesn’t care.
He says it every time your name drips out of someone else’s mouth. Every time a rookie asks who the hell you are, and the older heads just shake their heads and say, Ghost.
But Hoseok’s a liar.
And you?
You’re not just a ghost.
You’re his ghost.
The kind that leaves fingerprints on his steering wheel. The kind that curls in the smoke of his exhaust. The kind that lingers in his chest long after the streets have emptied and the night has gone quiet.
It isn’t until a rainy night in late August that you finally race each other.
Not at some overhyped city lot with drones overhead and influencers angling for footage. Not under the floodlights of a downtown grid or with half of Seoul screaming bets over each other.
No, this is quieter.
A hush hush meet tucked under the rusted bones of Magnolia Bridge. The kind of race whispered about only hours before it happens, organized through burner phones and back channels.
The sky is dark and overcast, fat clouds bleeding rain into cracked asphalt. Every car there is idling low and hungry, headlights glowing through the curtain of rain like wolves watching from the dark.
Hoseok’s already there.
His Mazda purrs like a beast held on a leash, idling at the line with steam rising in tendrils from the hood, engine heat kissing the cool rain. His gloved hands rest firm on the wheel, jaw tight as he eyes the empty lane beside him.
Then the thunder of your engine rolls in, low and seductive.
The crowd parts like smoke.
Your Silvia appears in full matte black glory, drops of rain crawling over its surface like they’re afraid to linger. It prowls up beside him, slowing to a stop so smooth it’s more like a whisper than a halt. The windows are tinted darker than sin.
Yours is cracked though, just enough for him to see your smirk.
A curl of smoke escapes the gap, twisting like a ribbon from your lips. You’re leaned back, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other holding a half lit blunt between ringed fingers. Hair slicked from the humidity. Mouth glossed from whatever glosses a mouth like yours.
You don’t speak at first.
Just look over. Hold him there with nothing more than a glance, like you’re already bored of the game you’re about to win.
“Took you long enough.” he calls across, voice low but clear enough to carry through the rain.
A slow exhale.
You blow another puff of smoke out the gap and tilt your head slightly.
“You were the one hiding from me, sunshine.”
His knuckles tighten on the wheel. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t return the flirt.
Instead, he presses his foot down gently—just enough to make the Mazda growl.
It’s the only response you get.
The starter steps between you both, eyes flicking from one car to the other. Hands raised. Engine growls swell across the lot like thunder layered under thunder.
Hoseok hears your car shifting, feels the power coiled behind you like something alive.
His heart thuds once.
Twice.
The flag drops.
And then…
Violence.
Pure, distilled chaos.
Rubber screams as you launch into the street like a shot of lightning. Your cars tear through the course, tires skimming puddles, splashing grit into the air. Water blasts in every direction as engines roar and bodies whip around turns like physics are nothing more than polite suggestions.
You’re fast.
You’re so fast.
Hoseok’s used to being the ghost other people chase. Used to being the one who carves the wind and leaves the rest in smoke. But you? You match him. You match him and pull ahead. Not with brute force, but with precision, with grace. Like your car isn’t made of metal but instinct.
At the second bend, your back tire skids just a little too far.
He gains on you.
You recover in a heartbeat, drift so tight you graze the edge of the barricade and leave sparks in your wake.
You’re toying with him.
The rain slicks the road to glass. Streetlights blur. Wind claws through half open windows. Hoseok’s jaw is clenched so tight it aches, his breath short, heart slamming as he fights to stay level, to take the inside lane, to find one weakness in your rhythm.
But there isn’t one.
Not until the last turn.
It’s sharp. Dirty. Already carved from the last heat—patchy pavement, oil sheen glinting through the downpour.
You both slide.
Your bumpers kiss, just for a heartbeat.
Metal against metal.
The crowd roars behind you, swallowed by the wind.
And then…you cross the finish.
Less than a quarter inch ahead.
The silence inside Hoseok’s car when he slams the brakes is deafening. His chest is heaving. Palms slick with sweat and rain. Eyes locked ahead, processing.
You beat him.
By a whisper.
He should be pissed.
Should be punching the steering wheel.
But he’s staring at you instead.
Your door swings open. You swing your legs out, slow and sharp, the gleam of someone’s headlights slicing across the wet gloss of your thighs. You’re not even breathing hard. Not even flushed. You toss your keys without looking, some friend catching them midair as you shoulder through the crowd like a queen through her court.
No victory lap.
No bow.
No backward glance.
But Hoseok watches.
Watches the way your jacket clings to your waist, water making it shine like latex. Watches the way you reach for someone’s blunt and take a slow drag without asking. Watches the way your laugh pierces through the heavy bass rolling out of someone’s trunk.
You’re untouchable.
Unbothered.
And Hoseok?
Still behind the wheel.
Still watching.
Still burning.
That’s when it starts.
The game.
It isn’t spoken aloud. No rules exchanged. No challenge issued. Just the unspoken knowledge that something’s been set in motion between you and Hoseok. Something winding, coiled, and taut with tension.
You race three more times. Each one faster, riskier, more electric than the last. Each one with more money on the line. Bigger crowds. Hungrier eyes.
Each one where Hoseok comes close.
So close.
But never close enough.
Your finishes are razor thin, sometimes only the width of a finger between you. Your engines scream in sync. Your cars dance along the line like twin wolves trying to outrun each other’s teeth. And every time, Hoseok thinks maybe. Maybe this time. Maybe you’ll stumble, maybe you’ll look back, maybe he’ll catch the ghost.
But you never do.
You vanish after each win.
Always.
Sometimes it’s right after you park, keys still in hand, walking off before the crowd finishes roaring. Sometimes you linger just long enough to collect your cash, snag someone’s cup or blunt or phone charger, then disappear into the neon lit sprawl of the lot.
Each time, Hoseok watches you leave.
Each time, something in his chest coils tighter.
You haunt the space you abandon.
And he keeps chasing.
Keeps telling himself it’s just competition. Just pride. Just unfinished business. Keeps pretending the way his hands shake after each race is about adrenaline, not obsession. Not the weight of your laugh. Not the gleam of your lip gloss caught in his headlights. Not the gold of your nails tapping against the car roof as you wait for the flag to drop.
He lies.
Again.
Because by the third race, it’s not just about the win anymore. It’s about you.
It’s always been about you.
—
The crowd’s thick that night. It’s the biggest race yet. Half the regulars are already drunk. A few local legends showed up, tossing cash and lighting blunts, crowding the starting line for a better view. The air’s sticky with liquor, smoke, and sweat. Hoseok can barely hear his thoughts over the music pounding out of a modded Civic’s trunk.
You beat him by a nose.
Again.
He doesn’t even fight it this time, doesn’t slam his fist into the wheel or bark at his crew. He just steps out, jaw locked, heart hammering, gaze locked onto the path you’ve taken through the sea of bodies.
You’re laughing with someone. A stranger. Tall, flashy. Drenched in designer gear that screams money, not muscle.
You’ve got one hand curled around a drink, body turned halfway toward the conversation, hips cocked at that lazy angle you always fall into when you’re bored. Half listening, half looking for an excuse to ghost out early.
Then he does it.
The guy.
His hand snakes around your waist.
Too rough. Too sure of itself.
And then lower.
He cups your ass. Firm, greedy, like he owns it.
You flinch.
Try to play it cool, your eyes darting sideways as you shift your weight and casually start to slide out of his grip, already queuing up the usual disappearing act. Smile, slip, vanish.
But he tightens his hold.
Yanks you back.
His breath is hot at your ear. “Where you goin’, pretty girl?”
You freeze.
And that’s when Hoseok sees it.
His jaw goes slack for half a second, stunned still.
Then it’s like a fuse snaps.
No warning. No words.
Just movement.
Hoseok doesn’t think.
Doesn’t blink.
He just moves.
The crowd doesn’t even register what’s happening until the first punch lands.
He lunges.
The first punch cracks through the noise like a gunshot. Clean, brutal, knuckle to cheekbone. The guy reels, stumbling into the side of a parked car, blood already smearing his lips.
But Hoseok doesn’t stop.
He hits him again.
And again and again.
Teeth go skittering across asphalt like loose change. The guy screams or maybe that’s someone else. A girl gasps. Someone yells for someone to do something. People scatter.
But Hoseok’s still swinging.
Still snarling like something feral and gone.
By the time Jin and Namjoon crash through the chaos, he’s shaking from the force of his own fury, fists dripping, chest heaving.
“Hoseok!” Jin grabs his shoulders, trying to pry him off.
“Bro—fuckin’ stop!” Namjoon snarls, yanking him back by the collar of his jacket.
The guy is curled up now, whimpering, nose crushed and leaking. His designer chain lies twisted in the dirt, snapped clean in half, glittering like it was never worth a damn in the first place.
But Hoseok doesn’t hear them.
Doesn’t see them.
All he sees is you.
And the hand that had no right.
All he hears is the pulse in his ears. All he sees is the way you’re standing there, calm as ever, eyes locked on him.
You haven’t moved.
You haven’t spoken.
Not a single word.
But your gaze slices cleaner than any shout.
You’re not wide eyed. Not grateful. Not flustered.
You’re unreadable.
And it cuts deeper than anything else.
Because that look?
That tilt of your chin, the bare arch of one brow, the way your lips part—not in shock, not in awe, but with cool calculation?
That look says everything.
You didn’t do it for me. You did it for you.
And you’re not wrong.
You turn away before Jin finishes yelling. Walk off without waiting to see if Hoseok follows.
You don’t thank him.
You don’t touch him.
You don’t even pause.
Just vanish, again. Your shoulders straight, jacket slung halfway down one arm, leaving nothing behind but smoke and silence and the ragged shape of Hoseok’s breathing.
That’s the night he realizes you’re more dangerous than he thought.
Because you don’t need anyone to save you.
Because you don’t owe anyone your softness.
Because he didn’t get under your skin.
You got under his.
The steering wheel still smells like blood.
Or maybe that’s just in his head.
Hoseok drives with one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, knuckles bruised and raw beneath the leather gloves he hasn’t bothered to take off. The Mazda rumbles beneath him—lowered, tuned, familiar. The engine purrs like it’s trying to soothe him, but his pulse stays sharp.
The city hums around him.
It’s late.
Later than late.
The kind of hour where most of the streets are empty and the stoplights flicker on timers, running red to no one. Neon halos paint the asphalt, and rain from earlier clings to the gutters, reflecting pink and blue and gold like broken glass.
His jaw aches. He hasn’t said a word since he and Jin parted ways with a heavy silence and a heavier stare.
You didn’t even flinch.
You didn’t thank him.
Didn’t call him off.
Didn’t look away when he split the guy’s lip open and dragged him through the gravel like trash.
You just stood there.
Like you were watching the weather.
Like none of it mattered.
He presses the gas a little harder than necessary, engine revving as he slips through a yellow light with no one else in sight. No destination in mind. Just movement. Just distance. Just a desperate attempt to shake you from the corners of his skull.
But you’re still there.
In the rearview. In the hum of his tires. In the sticky drag of memory replaying that look on your face like a glitch he can’t fix.
You didn’t do it for me. You did it for you.
And fuck, maybe he did.
Maybe he’d do it again.
He turns onto a quieter road, the city giving way to a neighborhood of 24 hour diners and flickering signage. A convenience store glows ahead. The front windows fogged from the cooler air inside.
The light turns red.
He slows.
And there you are.
You slip out from between two aisles and drift toward the counter like you’ve done it a hundred times. Still dressed down in the aftermath of the race. Your jacket hanging loose off one shoulder, gold polish catching the fluorescent light as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You’re smiling.
Not the sharp, knowing smile you use on the lot.
Not the slow, dangerous one you toss Hoseok like a warning.
This one’s real.
You’re talking to the cashier. An older woman with kind eyes and a tired smile. You lean over the counter, laughing softly at something she says.
Like you’ve done this before.
Like this place means something to you.
You reach across the counter, arms looped loosely around her shoulders, and pull her in for a gentle hug. Your cheek presses to her hair. You kiss the crown of her head without a second thought.
The light turns green.
Hoseok doesn’t linger.
Doesn’t tap the brake. Doesn’t twist for another look.
He just eases forward with the rest of the night, like he didn’t see a thing.
Like he didn’t feel something twist inside his ribs.
Like he didn’t just witness the most intimate thing you’ve done since the day you showed up on the scene.
—
You don’t remember the drive home.
The city passed in streaks, headlights bleeding like wounds across the windshield. Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind was nowhere near the lane markers. It was still back there.
Still locked in that moment.
Still with him.
Hosaeok.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t even feel this much. But the sound of bone cracking against skin—the pure, violent music of it—still echoes in your ears. His voice, ragged and rough, splitting through the chaos. His eyes, wild and hot, right before Jin yanked him away. That was the look of a man who didn’t just want to fight.
He wanted to destroy.
And the fucked up thing?
It wasn’t fear that settled in your belly after.
It was fire.
Because the guy who grabbed you? The one who tried to claim your body like it was something he paid for?
Already forgotten.
But Hoseok?
Hoseok scorched you.
—
The apartment is dark when you walk in. You lock the door behind you without thinking, flicking the bolt with the same muscle memory you use to lie. I’m fine. It’s nothing.
But tonight?
Nothing about this is fine.
You shrug off your jacket. Dump your keys. Your skin prickles from the inside out. You move through your routine on autopilot, shower, wash your face, brush your teeth, avoid your reflection. You don’t want to see how flushed you still are, how restless.
Your bed swallows you whole when you crawl in. The sheets feel cold. Too cold. You breathe in deep and exhale slow, but your lungs still feel tight. You close your eyes. Try to force your mind somewhere else.
But it doesn’t listen.
You see his hands first. Gloved, and still streaked with someone else’s blood. You imagine those same hands gripping your hips, tugging you to the edge of a mattress, shoving your knees apart with no intention of being gentle.
You exhale a soft moan and lift your tank top to your ribs.
But that’s not enough.
You sit up just long enough to peel it off and toss it to the side, bare skin meeting cool air, nipples tightening instantly. You cup your breasts with both hands, fingers teasing the sensitive peaks, gasping when your own touch makes your back arch.
“Hoseok,” you whisper into the stillness. “Fuck…”
You slide your other hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, past the cotton, past the heat, to the ache that’s been throbbing since the second he threw that first punch. You’re already soaked. It’s ridiculous. You don’t even care.
You moan again, louder this time, head rolling back into the pillow as your fingertips find your clit, circling slow.
You picture his mouth next. That barely leashed fury poured into every bite, every kiss. The kind of mouth that would kiss you just to shut you up, then ruin you because you didn’t stay quiet.
Your breath catches.
You pinch one nipple, a needy whimper breaking in your throat.
He wouldn’t ask for permission. He wouldn’t need to. Not with the way you’d be trembling under him, slick and begging and already his.
“Ah fuck—please,” you pant, grinding against your own hand now, chasing the shape of him in your mind. “Please…”
You think about how he’d sound, whispering in your ear while he fucked you open.
“Look at you. So wet for me. You like that, don’t you? Being mine.”
Your legs start to shake.
You tease your pussy, slipping two fingers inside, groaning at the stretch. Your other hand is still on your breast, twisting, playing, desperate for more sensation.
You imagine his weight pinning you down. His hips pressed hard into yours. The rhythm of him, deep and ruthless.
You moan again, sharp and broken.
The pressure builds fast. Too fast.
Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters.
The orgasm crashes over you like a wave made of flame. Spine bowing, mouth open in a cry, your body jerking with the force of it. Your fingers fuck you through it, curling, coaxing, milking every last tremor.
When it’s over, you collapse.
Chest heaving. Hand still between your legs. The room smells like sweat and skin and sex, like something he should’ve been here to witness. To cause.
You drag your fingers out slowly, absently wipe them on the sheets, eyes half lidded.
He doesn’t even know what he did to you.
The party’s too loud.
Too many bodies, too much smoke, too much bass rattling the floor beneath his boots. Hoseok leans against the bar, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating between his fingers, his jaw tight. He’s buzzed but not gone. Not yet. Just riding that edge of fucked up where everything feels hazy except for you.
Always you.
He hasn’t seen you since the fight.
He told himself to forget, to move the fuck on, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees your face. The way your body arched when the guy grabbed you. The way your eyes found his through the crowd like you knew exactly what he’d do next, and didn’t try to stop him.
You didn’t run from it.
You welcomed it.
You liked it.
“Hobi.”
He doesn’t turn at first. Not until the voice sounds again, sweeter this time.
“Hobi…?”
He looks up.
And blinks.
She’s pretty. Hair similar to yours. Lips painted in the same shade you always wear. She even smells like you—a little too much cherry though.
But it’s not you.
Still… he’s drunk.
Lonely.
And hard.
And she’s looking at him like she wants to be used.
So he lets her.
—
The door barely clicks shut behind them before he’s on her. Her laugh is breathy and high-pitched as he pins her to the wall, mouth crashing over hers with too much tongue, too much desperation. She tastes wrong, sweeter than you, less sharp, less sure. Her hands tug at his shirt like she’s trying to find something inside him worth keeping.
But Hoseok doesn’t want to be kept.
He wants to forget.
He flips her onto the bed and drags her jeans down her thighs. His movements are rough, impersonal. She gasps like she thinks it’s passion, but it isn’t.
It’s just need.
The room is dim. The only light comes from a cracked window and the streetlamp beyond. He can barely see her face.
Good.
He closes his eyes.
And imagines you.
The way you’d arch for him. The way your breath would stutter when he licks a stripe up your neck. The way you’d grab his hair and drag his mouth where you want it.
He mouths down her chest and pretends her skin is yours—soft and sweat slick, quivering under his tongue. When she moans, he pictures your voice—low, strained, that little gasp you let out when you want more but won’t say it.
He slips on a condom and pushes inside her biting down a groan.
Not because it feels good, but because it doesn’t.
She’s too wet, too open, too eager.
You’d fight him first.
You’d make him earn it.
His hips stutter.
Your name nearly slips out.
He bites his lip until he tastes blood.
The girl whines beneath him. Moans some name he doesn’t hear. She scratches his back like she’s trying to leave proof.
But the only thing Hoseok wants carved into him is you.
He fucks her like he’s punishing you for not being here. Like maybe if he moves fast enough, hard enough, deep enough, he can outrun the fact that he knows…
Knows this isn’t what he wants.
Knows it’s not even close.
Knows he could make you cum with just a look. Just a whisper. Just his fingers in your hair and his mouth at your ear, saying things he’s only ever dreamed of telling you.
He groans.
Buries his face in the crook of her neck and pretends it smells like you.
The orgasm that hits him is ugly. Fast. Hollow.
A curse under his breath. A fist in the sheets.
And then, emptiness.
Nothing but sweat and silence and the sick twist of regret in his gut.
His cock’s gone soft, his skin still humming, and all he can think is…she’s not you.
She never was.
And he hates himself for pretending.
—
He doesn’t stay long.
The girl falls asleep fast. Her head tucked against his shoulder like she belongs there, and Hoseok barely resists the urge to peel her off like a too warm blanket. The moment her breathing evens out, he slips from the bed, pulls on his jeans, grabs his jacket, and leaves.
His boots echo on the stairwell. The night outside is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t light a cigarette, doesn’t call a car. Just walks.
He tells himself the fresh air will clear his head.
It doesn’t.
Because your face is still there.
Like a watermark behind his eyes.
The way you looked that night, cheeks flushed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you were seconds from saying his name.
He imagines you now.
Imagines you bent over the hood of his car, dress shoved up, panties forgotten. One hand braced on the windshield, the other tangled in his hair while he eats you from behind like he’s starving.
His jaw flexes.
Or maybe you’d be laid out on his bed. Thighs parted, eyes glassy, whispering his name with that breathy lilt that ruins him. Maybe you’d beg. Or maybe you’d just look at him like you own him, and that’d be enough.
By the time he’s home, he’s hard again.
—
The apartment is silent. Moonlight spills across the floor through the half open blinds. Hoseok drops his keys on the counter and doesn’t even bother turning on a light. He shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his boots, and heads straight to the bathroom.
The girl from earlier is already a fading smear in his mind. Her voice, her hands, her skin, none of it stuck. None of it felt like you.
He turns on the shower.
Steam rolls up from the tile like breath from a beast. He steps inside and lets the heat scald the tension out of his shoulders, but it doesn’t help. He’s still aching and half hard. Imagining the scratch of your nails against his ribs, the press of your tits against his chest, the way you’d look riding him slow, lazy, like you had all night to ruin him.
His hand drifts down.
Wraps around his cock—hard now, painfully so—and he hisses through his teeth at the contact.
He strokes slow at first.
Leans back against the cool tile and closes his eyes.
You’re there again. Smirking. Kneeling between his legs with your fingers tugging his waistband down, your mouth slick and greedy as you sink onto him, no hesitation.
“Fuck,” he mutters, biting his lip. His hand moves faster now, tight and wet with the slick of soap and water. His hips jerk into the motion.
He pictures your mouth, lips red and tongue teasing, your gaze locked on his like you dare him to cum without permission.
He pumps harder.
Now you’re on all fours, back arched, begging for more in a voice he’s never heard but knows instinctively. His other hand braces on the wall, knuckles white.
“Say my name,” he groans, head tipping back. “Say it. Let me hear you fucking say it, baby—”
In his head, you do.
Over and over.
Hoseok. Hoseok. Hoseok.
Your moans echo in the space between his ribs, tightening the coil in his gut until it’s unbearable.
He comes with a guttural sound. Half curse, half prayer, thrusting into his hand like he can bury himself inside the illusion of you.
His knees nearly give out.
Ropes of cum streaks the shower wall. Water pelts his skin. His heart thunders against his chest.
And still.
Still.
He’s not satisfied.
Because you weren’t really there.
And now that he’s spent, shaking and raw, the ache has only deepened.
You haunt him worse than any ghost ever could.
After that, the tension changes.
It’s subtle at first.
A glance that lasts a breath too long. A half smile traded across a crowded lot. The way Hoseok’s hand hovers just slightly behind you when you pass each other in a tight space, like he’s always almost touching you. Like he’s daring himself not to.
Every encounter becomes a dare.
One of you always pushes.
The other always pulls away.
You show up to a race in heels once. Actual stilettos, five inches, patent leather, the kind that click like gunfire against the concrete when you walk. No one expects you to drive in them. Some of the guys laugh. One of them bets double against you, loud and cocky, claiming you’re more style than speed.
Hoseok doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just watches.
Watches as you slide into your Silvia like the car was made to wrap around you. Watches the way your hands rest easy on the wheel, your fingers tapping against the leather in rhythm with the music still bleeding out of someone’s speakers nearby.
And then he watches you destroy the track.
You eat the course alive.
You pass four men like they’re standing still, heels never coming off, eyes never flinching. Your engine roars through the night like it’s feeding on ego. You drift so close to the barricades it makes even the seasoned ones flinch. And when you hit the finish, it’s not even close.
You don’t brake hard. You don’t screech to a stop.
You glide. Like speed is your natural state and stillness is the illusion.
The crowd goes wild.
But your eyes?
They’re already locked on him.
You step out of the car and the second you spot Hoseok leaning against his Mazda across the lot, you smile.
Like you’ve been looking for him all night.
You cross the distance without hesitation. He straightens before he can stop himself, shoulders tensing, cock stirring behind his jeans. You come close, too close,and reach out, your fingers just barely brushing the chain that sits against the hollow of his throat.
“Cute shirt, sunshine,” you murmur, tugging lightly on the necklace instead, voice low enough only he can hear.
You don’t wait for a reaction.
You just turn away, the click of your heels swallowed by the cheers behind you.
And then you’re gone again, melting into the sea of bodies, laughing at something a girl in red leather whispers in your ear. You steal a sip from her bottle. Tug on her belt loop. Dance in the glow of a streetlight like no one else exists.
You don’t look at him again.
Not once.
But Hoseok doesn’t stop watching.
Not for a second.
That night, when he finally gets home, shirt still damp with sweat, knuckles still tight from how hard he’d been gripping the wheel, he can still feel the ghost of your fingers brushing his collarbone.
He falls asleep to the sound of your voice echoing in his head.
—
The next race is different.
The kind they only run once every couple months. Just outside the city, through the backroads and hills, no lights, no rails, barely enough road to hold the speed.
It’s an open call, but only the real ones show up.
Too dangerous for ego. Too long for luck.
By the halfway point, the pretenders are gone.
And only you and Hoseok are left at the front, locked side by side, engines snarling, exhaust spewing into the mist like breath from beasts.
He keeps trying to edge you out. You keep taking the inside turns. There’s something almost rhythmic about the way your cars fight. Like a dance neither of you planned, but both of you know by instinct.
He’s about to cut in—tight curve, hairpin bend, one he’s memorized from late night test runs with Jin and Joon—when it happens.
Someone behind you loses control.
A rookie in a borrowed car, too fast, too nervous, tires too bald for this kind of speed.
They skid out.
Overcorrect.
Chain reaction.
Metal shrieks.
Lights flash.
Something crashes behind him—he doesn’t even look.
He swerves.
Instinct.
But your car is right there.
He clips your rear quarter, hard.
And time—time breaks.
Your tail spins out, just a hair.
Your grip falters.
Your body jerks.
He sees you, really sees you, for half a second. Your hands white knuckled on the wheel, mouth drawn tight in concentration, a flicker of fear in your eyes.
You catch it.
Snapping the car back like magic. Hoseok barely manages to regain his own line, tires fighting for grip, gravel screaming beneath his chassis.
Neither of you win.
Neither of you care about the loss.
—
Afterward, the lot buzzes with aftermath.
No sirens. No medics. Just exhaust thick in the air and the sound of someone revving too loud in the distance like they’re trying to fill the silence with something that isn’t shame or blood or adrenaline.
Hoseok doesn’t give a shit about the winner.
Didn’t even look.
Because the second his car skidded past the final turn, tires screaming and heart in his throat, you weren’t where you were supposed to be.
Not near your car.
Not with the crowd.
Not with the firelight licking up your legs like it always does when you stand too close, smirking like you were born to be envied.
You’d vanished.
And that’s all that matters.
His boots crunch over gravel as he cuts through the maze of old storage units and loading crates stacked like a half built kingdom. People thin out here. Lights don’t quite reach. But he finds you anyway.
He always does.
You’re leaning against a crate like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Boot braced behind you, one arm crossed tight over your stomach, the other hanging loose with a blunt still burning down between your fingers. Your lip is split. There’s a slice just below your temple, blood already drying in a line that carves down the curve of your cheek.
And your face?
Unbothered.
If anything, annoyed.
“Damn,” he mutters, stopping a few feet from you. “You look like shit.”
You flick ash to the side. “That’s rich coming from a guy who just tried to turn someone’s skull inside out.”
He exhales hard. “You didn’t like him touching you.”
“It’s not the first time someone got a little too excited.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Don’t worry.”
The silence is sharp. Not comfortable. Just tolerable because neither of you knows what to do with softness when it’s real.
He drags a hand through his hair, eyes raking over you. “You could’ve been hurt.”
You snort. “You’re the one out there driving like you’ve got a death wish.”
“At least I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, right. Mr. Precision.” You push off the crate with a wince you try to hide. “Tell me—was it part of the plan to run me off the road or lose your shit and nearly beat a man to death in front of everyone?”
“That was an accident, and he touched you.”
“So?” you throw back. “It’s not like you’ve never seen it happen before.”
“Yeah,” he growls, stepping forward, “but it’s the first time I wanted to kill someone for it.”
That stops you.
You blink—once, slow. Like your brain has to buffer just to process it. But then you scoff again, less sure this time. You try to move past him, but he shifts to block you, his body a wall, jaw tight.
Your voice dips. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“It’s already a thing,” he snaps. “You think I do this shit for fun? You think I walk around with bruised knuckles and a goddamn temper because I don’t care?”
“You don’t know what you care about,” you fire back. “You just get off on feeling needed.”
His mouth twitches—something caught between a laugh and a snarl. “You think that’s what this is? Some fucked up savior complex?”
You shrug, but there’s a tremble in it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He’s on you before you can look away.
Not touching. Just there.
So close you feel the heat radiating off his chest. His breath fans across your cheek. His eyes search yours like he’s looking for proof of something he’s too afraid to ask for out loud.
“I don’t want to save you,” he says, voice low. “I want to keep you.”
The words land heavy.
And for a second, you don’t say anything.
“That’s worse.”
You don’t mean it.
He knows you don’t.
But neither of you can handle what comes next, so you sidestep it the only way you know how.
He pulls a bandana from his back pocket and lifts it toward your face. You tense at first, but he doesn’t back off. Just presses the cloth gently to the cut on your temple.
“You always this gentle with girls you threaten to kill for?”
He exhales through his nose, unamused. “You always this mouthy when you’re concussed?”
You snort. “Takes more than a few knocks to the head to keep me quiet.”
“God help me.”
“Please. You’d be bored if I was sweet.”
His fingers twitch. Not from the blood. From you.
“I’m already losing my mind.”
You go quiet again.
Not because you’re scared.
Because it’s too loud inside you now.
Because you know what this is.
And you’re not ready.
Neither is he.
So you let him press the cloth to your skin.
Let him breathe you in like a man who’s drowning.
And when you finally speak, your voice is softer.
Still sharp. But slower. Almost sad.
“You’ve got a thing for me, sunshine?”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just says, “It’s a secret.”
You huff a laugh.
Then fall quiet again.
His hand lingers at your cheek. Your eyes don’t move. And the moment stretches. Like if either of you shifted an inch, the whole world would tilt.
Your breath mingles with his now—hot, shallow and close.
The bandana slips from Hoseok’s fingers entirely, but neither of you notice. It falls between your boots like it doesn’t matter, like nothing matters except this quiet war crackling in the air between you.
His hand doesn’t drop.
It moves barely.
Fingertips trail from your temple down to the curve of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. He’s watching you like he’s afraid to blink, like he’ll miss the moment if he does. His thumb ghosts across your cheekbone, catching a bead of blood before it can fall.
You let him.
For the first time since this whole thing started, since your first glance, your first race, your first win, you let him see you. No smirk. No armor. No game.
Just you.
And maybe that’s what makes him lean in, slowly, like he’s giving you time to move. To stop him.
Time to change your mind.
But you don’t.
You tilt your chin up just slightly, mouth parting, lashes lowering as your eyes flick to his lips. His hand rises to your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.
Your lips just barely graze each others, so light you think you might’ve imagined it.
“Yo, Hobi—!”
You both jerk back, snapped out of it like a broken spell. Hoseok turns his head toward the noise, jaw clenched tight, expression sharp with something that isn’t quite anger but definitely isn’t patience.
It’s Jungwoo, wide eyed, standing halfway across the gravel, waving like he doesn’t realize what he’s just interrupted.
“Jin said to tell you your rear axle’s bent and the tie rods are gonna need to be realigned before you drive that thing anywhere again. Wants you to take a look.”
Hoseok doesn’t respond.
Just stands there, exhaling through his nose, eyes still locked on the space where your body used to be. You’ve already shifted your weight, straightened up, pulled your jacket back into place.
The mask slides back on.
“That your cue?” you murmur, dry.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at Jungwoo. Just looks at you.
“I’ll come find you after.”
You raise a brow. “No, you won’t.”
And then you’re gone again. Slipping into the shadows like you were never there, leaving him standing alone under the floodlight with blood on his hands and your phantom kiss burning on his lips.
two | masterlist
dividers courtesy of @uzmacchiato
𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓱𝓸𝓫𝓲 @lookingforhobi - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
